艾米·洛威爾，美國(guó)詩(shī)人，她的第一部詩(shī)集是《多彩玻璃頂》。1913年她在實(shí)驗(yàn)性的意象派運(yùn)動(dòng)中脫穎而出，并繼埃茲拉·龐德之后而成為該運(yùn)動(dòng)的領(lǐng)袖人物。她運(yùn)用“自由韻律散文”和自由詩(shī)的形式進(jìn)行創(chuàng)作，被稱為“無(wú)韻之韻”。下面學(xué)習(xí)啦小編為大家?guī)?lái)洛威爾詩(shī)歌欣賞，歡迎大家閱讀!

　　洛威爾詩(shī)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(shī)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.