洛威爾詩歌欣賞

艾米·洛威爾，美國詩人，她的第一部詩集是《多彩玻璃頂》。1913年她在實驗性的意象派運動中脫穎而出，並繼埃茲拉·龐德之後而成爲該運動的領袖人物。她運用“自由韻律散文”和自由詩的形式進行創作，被稱爲“無韻之韻”。下面本站小編爲大家帶來洛威爾詩歌欣賞，歡迎大家閱讀!

　洛威爾詩歌欣賞：The Paper Windmill

The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane

and looked out

at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of

the square

glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and

pranced,

and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown

water

of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string

of galliots

piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they

looked as if

they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said,

"Oh!" with delight,

and pressed against the window with all his might.

The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed. His

beak was open

like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged

in it.

"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy. "Can't you

hear me

through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You

should crow

when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc." But

the golden cock

stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind.

He could not understand the little boy, for he said "Cocorico"

when he said anything. But he was hung in the air to

swing, not to sing.

His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses

drifted away down the canal.

It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the

square, the wind

was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed,

with a dogcart

beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled

out a gay tune:

"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream

for your coffee

to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,"

and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop!

milk for your tea.

Plop! trop! drink it to-night." It was very pleasant

out there,

but it was lonely here in the big room. The little boy

gulped at a tear.

　洛威爾詩歌欣賞：A Tale for an Autumn Evening

It was a gusty night,

With the wind booming, and swooping,

Looping round corners,

Sliding over the cobble-stones,

Whipping and veering,

And careering over the roofs

Like a thousand clattering horses.

Mr. Spruggins had been dining in the city,

Mr. Spruggins was none too steady in his gait,

And the wind played ball with Mr. Spruggins

And laughed as it whistled past him.

It rolled him along the street,

With his little feet pit-a-patting on the flags of the sidewalk,

And his muffler and his coat-tails blown straight out behind him.

It bumped him against area railings,

And chuckled in his ear when he said "Ouch!"

Sometimes it lifted him clear off his little patting feet

And bore him in triumph over three grey flagstones and a quarter.

The moon dodged in and out of clouds, winking.

It was all very unpleasant for Mr. Spruggins,

And when the wind flung him hard against his own front door

It was a relief,

Although the breath was quite knocked out of him.

The gas-lamp in front of the house flared up,

And the keyhole was as big as a barn door;

The gas-lamp flickered away to a sputtering blue star,

And the keyhole went out with it.

Such a stabbing, and jabbing,

And sticking, and picking,

And poking, and pushing, and prying

With that key;

And there is no denying that Mr. Spruggins rapped out an oath or

two,

Rub-a-dub-dubbing them out to a real snare-drum roll.

But the door opened at last,

And Mr. Spruggins blew through it into his own hall

And slammed the door to so hard

That the knocker banged five times before it stopped.

Mr. Spruggins struck a light and lit a candle,

And all the time the moon winked at him through the window.

"Why couldn't you find the keyhole, Spruggins?"

Taunted the wind.

"I can find the keyhole."

And the wind, thin as a wire,

Darted in and seized the candle flame

And knocked it over to one side

And pummelled it down -- down -- down --!

But Mr. Spruggins held the candle so close that it singed his chin,

And ran and stumbled up the stairs in a surprisingly agile manner,

For the wind through the keyhole kept saying, "Spruggins! Spruggins!"

behind him.

The fire in his bedroom burned brightly.

The room with its crimson bed and window curtains

Was as red and glowing as a carbuncle.

It was still and warm.

There was no wind here, for the windows were fastened;

And no moon,

For the curtains were drawn.

The candle flame stood up like a pointed pear

In a wide brass dish.

Mr. Spruggins sighed with content;

He was safe at home.

The fire glowed -- red and yellow roses

In the black basket of the grate --

And the bed with its crimson hangings

Seemed a great peony,

Wide open and placid.

Mr. Spruggins slipped off his top-coat and his muffler.

He slipped off his bottle-green coat

And his flowered waistcoat.

He put on a flannel dressing-gown,

And tied a peaked night-cap under his chin.

He wound his large gold watch

And placed it under his pillow.

Then he tiptoed over to the window and pulled back the curtain.

There was the moon dodging in and out of the clouds;

But behind him was his quiet candle.

There was the wind whisking along the street.

The window rattled, but it was fastened.

Did the wind say, "Spruggins"?

All Mr. Spruggins heard was "S-s-s-s-s --"

Dying away down the street.

He dropped the curtain and got into bed.

Martha had been in the last thing with the warming-pan;

The bed was warm,

And Mr. Spruggins sank into feathers,

With the familiar ticking of his watch just under his head.

Mr. Spruggins dozed.

He had forgotten to put out the candle,

But it did not make much difference as the fire was so bright .

Too bright!

The red and yellow roses pricked his eyelids,

They scorched him back to consciousness.

He tried to shift his position;

He could not move.

Something weighed him down,

He could not breathe.

He was gasping,

Pinned down and suffocating.

He opened his eyes.

The curtains of the window were flung back,

The fire and the candle were out,

And the room was filled with green moonlight.

And pressed against the window-pane

Was a wide, round face,

Winking -- winking --

Solemnly dropping one eyelid after the other.

Tick -- tock -- went the watch under his pillow,

Wink -- wink -- went the face at the window.

It was not the fire roses which had pricked him,

It was the winking eyes.

Mr. Spruggins tried to bounce up;

He could not, because --

His heart flapped up into his mouth

And fell back dead.

On his chest was a fat pink pig,

On the pig a blackamoor

With a ten pound weight for a cap.

His mustachios kept curling up and down like angry snakes,

And his eyes rolled round and round,

With the pupils coming into sight, and disappearing,

And appearing again on the other side.

The holsters at his saddle-bow were two port bottles,

And a curved table-knife hung at his belt for a scimitar,

While a fork and a keg of spirits were strapped to the saddle behind.

He dug his spurs into the pig,

Which trampled and snorted,

And stamped its cloven feet deeper into Mr. Spruggins.

Then the green light on the floor began to undulate.

It heaved and hollowed,

It rose like a tide,

Sea-green,

Full of claws and scales

And wriggles.

The air above his bed began to move;

It weighed over him

In a mass of draggled feathers.

Not one lifted to stir the air.

They drooped and dripped

With a smell of port wine and brandy,

Closing down, slowly,

Trickling drops on the bed-quilt.

Suddenly the window fell in with a great scatter of glass,

And the moon burst into the room,

Sizzling -- "S-s-s-s-s -- Spruggins! Spruggins!"

It rolled toward him,

A green ball of flame,

With two eyes in the center,

A red eye and a yellow eye,

Dropping their lids slowly,

One after the other.

Mr. Spruggins tried to scream,

But the blackamoor

Leapt off his pig

With a cry,

Drew his scimitar,

And plunged it into Mr. Spruggins's mouth.

Mr. Spruggins got up in the cold dawn

And remade the fire.

Then he crept back to bed

By the light which seeped in under the window curtains,

And lay there, shivering,

While the bells of St. George the Martyr chimed the quarter after

seven.