puisi bahasa inggris
puisi inggris-The Sick Rose
O Rose, thou art sick:
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.puisi inggris-The Sick Rose
puisi inggris-A Poison Tree
puisi inggris-A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,--
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.This poem is in the public domain.
puisi inggris - the tyger
puisi inggris-The Tyger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?This poem is in the public domain.
puisi inggris-Ah! Sunflower
puisi inggris-Ah! Sunflower
Ah! sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;
Where the youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves and aspire;
Where my sunflower wishes to go.
Harbor Seal
She did not seemfocused
on any one thing.
She swam
the river
dark mottled face
above the surface
her nose
pointed up stream.
But then she turned
her face neck fair
bare belly
to the sky
and closed her eyes—
as if to listen
or remember
or memorize.
Meadow with Hoarfrost
Now the wire is bare; now it’s sheathed
in blackbirds, a magic that undoes me
every time: how they alight or rise
like iron filings drawn by a magnet.
What purpose to this synchronous eruption
but beauty? And yet, beneath such wonder,
what horrors bulge up out of the given. Take
that afternoon when, still shaken from it all
I cooked a funeral meal. Blind bars of sun
laced the counter, the cold, ground meat
I rubbed with herbs and salt. I knew my friend
wouldn’t taste, if he even ate, but the task
gave me reason not to be still with the recent
spectacle: the casket, his son’s body dressed
as if for a school dance, the wrecked wrists
hidden beneath sleeves. If I’d let it, the specters
would split and split, like nesting dolls. Behind
that impression, another—the ashes of a friend
who’d hanged himself the month before. How,
when cast, some of those ashes returned
and clung to my sweater. The washed-up bones
of the schizophrenic girl who’d walked into the river
that summer. This was reality: the raw meat,
my hands the same dull red, the drought scorching
the heartland’s cornfields to straw, everything wasted.
And yet, seasons flicker past like slides, a long
line of traffic, going whether I watch or not, so look:
here I am, driving fast down a white highway.
The fields shine in their netting of frost, and every
last filament on every tree lining the road is plated
meticulous silver—not a branch untouched—
and these witless blackbirds rise, making
a sailing vessel of wings: you were wrong, says
the ship that’s not a ship, that disappears
into fog, wrong about everything.
