On Classical English Poetry (I)
I started early, with my dog.
Emily Dickinson *** 1830-86***
I started early, with my dog.
Visited the sea
Mermaid in the basement
Come out to see me
And frigates-on the upper floor
An outstretched marijuana hand
Suppose I were a mouse.
Stranded on the beach
But no one moved me-until the tide came in.
Walk past my simple shoes
Over my apron and my belt
Also through my corset.
Pretend that he will eat me.
Completely like dew.
On the sleeve of dandelion
And then-I started, too
He, he followed.
I touched his silver heel.
At my ankle, and then my shoes.
Will be full of pearls
Until we met a strong town.
He doesn't seem to know anyone.
Bow-with a strong expression
Before I-the sea flinched.
On the second part of classical English poetry
Kuer's Wild Swan
William Butler Yeats *** 1865- 1939***
Trees present the beauty of autumn,
The forest path is very dry,
In the twilight of October
Reflect the calm sky;
On the overflowing water between stones
It is 950 swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come to me.
Since I first counted the number of people;
I saw that before I finished,
All sudden installations
Scattered in a broken ring
On their noisy wings.
I've seen those remarkable creatures,
Now my heart hurts.
Everything has changed, since I heard it at dusk,
For the first time on this coast,
The ringing of their wings on my head,
Walk with light steps.
Still tireless, one lover after another,
They paddled in the cold
Climb a stream or climb the sky;
Their hearts are not getting old;
Passion or conquest, wandering where they want to go,
Still pay attention to them
But now they are floating on the calm water,
Mysterious and beautiful;
They will be built in rushes,
By some lake or pond
One day when I woke up, I pleased a man's eyes.
Found that they had flown away?
On Classical English Poetry (3)
Those horses
Ted Hughes
I climbed through the Woods in the dark before dawn.
Evil air, frosty silence,
Not a leaf, not a bird,-
The world of frost casting. I came above the forest.
My breath left a curved statue in the iron light.
But the valley is running out of darkness
Until the bright gray Moore line-blackened scum-
The sky ahead is halved. I saw a horse:
Huge dense gray—ten together—
Stonehenge-still. They were breathing, motionless,
With a mane and hind legs up,
Not making a sound.
I passed: no one snorted or jerked his head up.
Gray silent segment
A gray and silent world.
I listened on the empty moor.
The tears of the curlew turned its edge to silence.
Details slowly emerged from the darkness. Then the sun
Orange, red, red broke out.
Quietly, split to the core and tear and throw clouds,
Open the bay and reveal the blue,
And hanging planets.
I turned around.
Stumbling in the frenzy of dreams
Dark Woods, from the top of the fire,
Come to the horses.
They are still standing there,
But now it's steaming and shining in the light,
They are covered with stone manes and sloping hind feet.
Stir under thawing, and everything around them
Frost shows its flame. But they still have no sound.
No one hummed or stamped their feet,
They lowered their heads and looked patiently at the horizon.
High over the valley, in the red horizontal light-
In the noise of crowded streets, in the years, in the faces,
Can I meet my memory in such a lonely place?
Between the stream and the red clouds, listening to the curlew,
Listen, the horizon continues to stretch.