求几首著名的英文诗要标明作者或出处,还要有题目,不要太长,也不要太短,最好是像莎士比亚,雪莱这种人写的.至少5首

求几首著名的英文诗
要标明作者或出处,还要有题目,不要太长,也不要太短,最好是像莎士比亚,雪莱这种人写的.
至少5首

Ⅰ.She Walks in Beauty
　　She walks in beauty, like the night
　　Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
　　And all that's best of dark and bright
　　Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
　　Thus mellowed to that tender light
　　Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
　　One shade the more, one ray the less,
　　Had half impaired the nameless grace
　　Which waves in every raven tress,
　　Or softly lightens o'er her face;
　　Where thoughts serenely sweet express
　　How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
　　And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
　　So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
　　The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
　　But tell of days in goodness spent,
　　A mind at peace with all below,
　　A heart whose love is innocent!
　by Lord Byron
　Ⅱ.Sonnet XVIII (Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?)
　　Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
　　Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
　　Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
　　And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
　　Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines
　　And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
　　And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
　　By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed;
　　But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
　　Nor lose possession of that fair thou own;
　　Nor shall death brag thou wander in his shade,
　　When in eternal lines to time thou grow:
　　So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
　　So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
　by William Shakespeare
　Ⅲ.Ode to the West Wind
　　I
　　O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
　　Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
　　Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
　　Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
　　Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
　　Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
　　The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
　　Each like a corpse within its grave, until
　　Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
　　Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
　　(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
　　With living hues and odours plain and hill:
　　Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
　　Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
　　II
　　Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
　　Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
　　Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
　　Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
　　On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
　　Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
　　Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
　　Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
　　The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
　　Of the dying year, to which this closing night
　　Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
　　Vaulted with all thy congregated might
　　Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
　　Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!
　　III
　　Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
　　The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
　　Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
　　Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
　　And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
　　Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
　　All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
　　So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
　　For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
　　Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
　　The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
　　The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
　　Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
　　And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!
　　IV
　　If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
　　If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
　　A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
　　The impulse of thy strength, only less free
　　Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
　　I were as in my boyhood, and could be
　　The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
　　As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
　　Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven
　　As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
　　Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
　　I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
　　A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
　　One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
　　V
　　Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
　　What if my leaves are falling like its own!
　　The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
　　Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
　　Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
　　My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
　　Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
　　Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
　　And, by the incantation of this verse,
　　Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
　　Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
　　Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
　　The trumpet of a prophecy! Oh Wind,
　　If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
　by Percy Bysshe Shelley
　Ⅳ.Ode To A Nightingale
　　My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
　　My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
　　Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
　　One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
　　'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
　　But being too happy in thine happiness --
　　That thou, light winged Dryad of the trees,
　　In some melodious plot
　　Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
　　Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
　　O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
　　Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
　　Tasting of Flora and the country green,
　　Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
　　O for a beaker full of the warm South,
　　Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
　　With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
　　And purple-stained mouth,
　　That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
　　And with thee fade away into the forest dim.
　　Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
　　What thou amongst the leaves hast never known,
　　The weariness, the fever, and the fret
　　Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
　　Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs.
　　Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
　　Where nut to think is to be full of sorrow
　　And leaden-eyed despairs;
　　Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
　　Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
　　Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
　　Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
　　But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
　　Though the dull brain perplexes and retards.
　　Already with thee! tender is the night,
　　And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
　　Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
　　But here there is no light,
　　Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
　　Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
　　I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
　　Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
　　But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
　　Wherewith the seasonable month endows
　　The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild --
　　White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
　　Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
　　And mid-May's eldest child,
　　The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
　　The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
　　Darkling I listen; and for many a time
　　I have been half in love with easeful Death,
　　Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
　　To take into the air my quiet breath;
　　Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
　　To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
　　While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
　　In such an ecstasy!
　　Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain --
　　To thy high requiem become a sod.
　　Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
　　No hungry generations tread thee down;
　　The voice I hear this passing night eas heard
　　In ancient days by emperor and clown:
　　Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
　　Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
　　She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
　　The same that oft-times hath
　　Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
　　Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
　　Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
　　To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
　　Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
　　As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
　　Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
　　Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
　　Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
　　In the next valley-glades:
　　Was is a vision, or a waking dream?
　　Fled is that music -- Do I wake or sleep?
　by John Keats
　Ⅴ.The Arrow and the Song
　　I shot an arrow into the air,
　　It fell to earth I knew not where;
　　For so swiftly it flew the sight,
　　Could not follow it in its flight.
　　I breathed a song into the air,
　　It fell to earth I knew not where;
　　For who has the sight so keen and strong,
　　That can follow the flight of a song.
　　Long,long afterwards in an oak,
　　I found the arrow still unbroke;
　　And the song, from beginning to end,
　　I found again in the heart of a friend.
　by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
　Ⅵ.On A faded violet
　　The odor from the flower is gone,
　　Which like thy kisses breathed on me;
　　The color from the flower is flown,
　　Which glowed of thee, and only thee!
　　A shriveled, lifeless, vacant form,
　　It lies on my abandoned breast.
　　And mocks the heart, which yet is warm,
　　With cold and silent rest.
　　I weep —— my tears revive it not;
　　I sigh —— it breathes no more on me;
　　Its mute and uncomplaining lot
　　Is such as mine should be.
　by Percy Bysshe Shelley