ÃÀ¹úÎÄѧÆÚÄ©¸´Ï°(1) ÏÂÔØ±¾ÎÄ

Ƭ£¬Ð±¶Ô×ÅÌ«ÑôµÄ»°¼òÖ±Á¬¸öÓ°×Ó¶¼²»»áÓÐËÆµÄ¡£º¢×ÓÀäÑÛ¿´×Å£¬·¢¾õ°Ö°ÖÖ»¹Ë³¯Ò»¸ö·½Ïò×ßÈ¥£¬½ÅϾø²»¿ÏÓаëµãÆ«Àë¡£³µµÀÉÏË©¹ýÂí£¬ÓÐÒ»¶ÑÐÂÏÊÂí·à£¬°Ö°ÖÃ÷Ã÷ֻҪŲһؽŲ½£¬¾Í¿ÉÒÔÈùý£¬¿ÉÊÇËû¿´¼ûÄÇÖ»²»Áé±ãµÄ½Åȴƫƫ²»Æ«²»Ð±Ò»½Å²ÈÔÚ·à¶ÑÀï¡£²»¹ýÄÇÖÖ°²ÐĶø»¶Ï²µÄ¸Ð¾õ¹ýÁËÆ¬¿Ì¾ÍÓÖ»Ö¸´ÁË¡£Ëûһ·×ßÈ¥£¬¼òÖ±½ÐÕâ×ùÕ¬µÚ¸øÃÔÉÏÁË£¬Õâôһ×ùÕ¬µÚ¸øËûµÄ»°ËûÒ²ÒªµÄ£¬²»¹ýûÓеϰËûÒ²²¢²»Ñۺ죬²¢²»ÉËÐÄ£¬¸ü²»»áÏñÇ°ÃæÄÇһλÄÇÑù¡ª¡ªËû²»ÖªµÀÇ°ÃæÄǸö´©×ÅÌú¼×°ãµÄºÚÍâÌ×µÄÈË£¬È´ÊǶʻðÖÐÉÕ£¬ÕæºÞ²»µÃÒ»¿ÚÍÌ϶ÇÈ¥ÄØ¡£º¢×ÓÕâʱºòµÄÐÄÇ飬¿ÉϧËûÒ²ÎÞ·¨ÓÃÑÔÓïÀ´±í°×£º»òÐí°Ö°ÖÒ²»á¸ÐÊܵ½Õâ¹ÉħÁ¦ÄØ¡£ËûÏÈǰ¸ÉÄǺÅÊ£¬¿ÉÄÜÒ²ÊÇÉí²»Óɼº£¬»òÐíÕâһϾͿÉÒÔ½ÐËû¸ÄÒ»¸ÄÁË¡£

Ê«¸è

To Helen

Edgar Allan Poe

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

Are Holy Land!

º£Â×£¬ÄãµÄÃÀÔÚÎÒµÄÑÛÀ ÓÐÈçÍùÈÕÄáÎ÷ÑǵÄÈýΦ´¬ ´¬ÐÐÔÚÆ®ÏãµÄº£ÉÏ£¬ÓÆÓÆµØ °ÑÒѾëÓÚÆ¯²´µÄÀ§·¦´¬Ô± ËÍ»ØËû¹ÊÏçµÄº£°¶¡£ ÔçÒÑϰ¹ßÓÚÔÚÅ­º£ÉÏÆ®µ´£¬ ÄãµäÑŵÄÁ³ÅÓ£¬ÄãµÄ÷Ü·¢£¬ ÄãË®Éñ°ãµÄ·ç×Ë´øÎÒ·µº½£¬ ·µ»ØÄÇÍùʱµÄÏ£À°ºÍÂÞÂí£¬ ·µ»ØÄÇÍùʱµÄ׳ÀöºÍ»Ô»Í¡£ ¿´ÄÄ£¡±ÚíèËÆµÄÃ÷ÁÁ´°»§À

21 / 23

ÎÒ¿´¼ûÄãÕ¾×Å£¬¶àÏñ×ðµñÏñ£¬ Ò»ÕµÂê觵ĵÆÄãÄÃÔÚÊÖÉÏ£¡ Èû¼§Å®ÉñÄÄ£¬ÉñÊ¥µÄÍÁµØ

²ÅÊÇÄã¼ÒÏ磡

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening[ѩҹÁÖ±ßСפ]

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know, ÎÒÖªµÀÁÖ×ÓµÄÖ÷ÈËÊÇË­£¬

His house is in the village though. Ëä´åÂäÊÇËûËù¾ÓÖ®µØ¡£

He will not see me stopping here, Ëû²»»á¿´µ½ÎÒÍ£ÁôÓÚ´Ë£¬

To watch his woods fill up with snow. ÄýÊÓËûµÄÁÖ×ÓÑ©»¨·×·É¡£

My little horse must think it queer, ÎÒµÄСÂíÒ»¶¨ÒÔÎÒΪ¹Ö£¬

To stop without a farmhouse near, ½üÎÞ·¿ÉᣬΪºÎÍ£Øù¡£

Between the woods and frozen lake, ¿öÖ»ÓÐÁÖ×ÓÓë±ùºþ£¬

The darkest evening of the year. ºÍÒ»ÄêÖÐ×îºÚÖ®Ò¹¡£

He gives his harness bells a shake, ËûÇáÒ¡Áå¾ß£¬

To ask if there is some mistake. ѯÎÊÓдíÓë·ñ¡£

The only other sound's the sweep, ΨһµÄ»Ø¸´À´×Ô£¬

Of easy wind and downy flake. ÈíÑ©ºÍÇå·ç¡£

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. ÁÖ×ÓºÜÃÀ¡ª¡ª»è°µ¶øÓÄÉ

But I have promises to keep, µ«ÎÒÒÑÓÐÔ¼¶¨¡£

22 / 23

The Waking

Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go. We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Of those so close beside me, which are you? God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,

And learn by going where I have to go. Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go

23 / 23