1
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.
Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not.
My grief lies all within,
And these external manners of lament
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortured soul.
It easeth some, though none it ever cured,
To think their dolour others have endured.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud
For grief is proud an't makes his owner stoop.
Day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.
What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief.
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
2
Stopping by woods on a snowy evening Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year
He give his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
我想我知道這是誰的森林,盡管那人遠在鄉(xiāng)村
他不會看到我停留于此,欣賞這片屬于他的
被皚皚白雪覆蓋著的林園
我的小馬必定奇怪,為什么要駐足在這里——遠離人煙
游蕩在森林和冰凍的湖水之間,
在一年中最陰暗的夜晚,那人搖響了他的馬鈴
詢問一切是否平安
卻只有風(fēng)兒吹過,雪片飄零
這森林如此迷人幽深,可是我已許下諾言：
在我沉入夢鄉(xiāng)之前,還要再走上一段,
還要再走上一段.

3My favorite poem by Frost:

Design

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.


4
Dylan Thomas

Not really for me. I liked his "Before I Knocked", but unfortunately the wry sense of humor in this poem is more the exception than the rule. Too morbid, which is quite English; but the sober take-me-seriuosly earnestness is not English, at all. Because the English, from before Shakespeare's time, has been known for a paradoxically life-affirming graveyard humor. which is not shared by Dylan Thomas at all.

5
Edward Thomas: Rain

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying to-night or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be for what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

6
[This is the answer to your prayer, 雋飴]

W. H. Davis: LEISURE

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep and cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.



7
Byron: "So We'll Go No More a-Roving"


So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

8

This poem offers the rare combination of immediate appeal AND the potential for undiscovered depth, when you re-read it. For example, what is meant by these lines?
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

There are different ways you may read into these two lines. Amazing