Poetry Anthology for IGCSE Literature in English (0486) For examination in 2007, 2008, 2009
Caged Birdcount
Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing5 in the orange sun’s rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can ldom e through10 his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings15 with a fearful trill
同比和环比of things unknown
nbst
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill20 for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn25 and he names the sky his own.
2016年考研政治But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.30
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard35 on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Rising Five
Norman Nicholson
‘I’m rising five’, he said,
广外自考‘Not four’, and little coils of hair
Un-clicked themlves upon his head.
His spectacles, brimful of eyes to stare
At me and the meadow, reflected cones of light 5 Above his toffee-buckled cheeks. He’d been alive
Fifty-six months or perhaps a week more:
not four,
But rising five.
Around him in the field the cells of spring 10 Bubbled and doubled; buds unbuttoned; shoot
And stem shook out the creas from their frills,
And every tree was swilled with green.
It was the ason after blossoming,
Before the forming of the fruit: 15
not May,
But rising June.
And in the sky
The dust discted tangential light:
not day, 20 But rising night;
not now,
But rising soon.
米其妙妙屋
The new buds push the old leaves from the bough.
We drop our youth behind us like a boy 25 Throwing away his toffee-wrappers. We never e the flower,
泰坦尼克号第二结局But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit,
But only the rot in the fruit. We look for the marriage bed
In the baby’s cradle, we look for the grave in the bed:
not living, 30 But rising dead.
Little Boy Crying
Mervyn Morris
Your mouth contorting in brief spite andins是什么
Hurt, your laughter metamorphod into howls,
考研现场确认地点Your frame so recently relaxed now tight
With three-year-old frustration, your bright eyes
Swimming tears, splashing your bare feet, 5 You stand there angling for a moment’s hint
Of guilt or sorrow for the quick slap struck.
The ogre towers above you, that grim giant,
Empty of feeling, a colossal cruel,
Soon victim of the tale’s conclusion, dead 10 At last. You hate him, you imagine
Chopping clean the tree he’s scrambling down
Or plotting deeper pits to trap him in.
You cannot understand, not yet,
The hurt your easy tears can scald him with, 15 Nor guess the wavering hidden behind that mask.
This fierce man longs to lift you, curb your sadness
With piggy-back or bull-fight, anything,
But dare not ruin the lessons you should learn.
You must not make a plaything of the rain. 20
Carpet-weavers, Morocco
Carol Rumens
The children are at the loom of another world.
Their braids are oiled and black, their dress bright.
Their assorted heights would make a melodious chime.
They watch their flickering knots like television.
As the garden of Islam grows, the bench will be raid.5 Then they will lace the dark-ro veins of the tree-tops.
The carpet will travel in the merchant’s truck.
联系电话的英文It will be spread by the rvants of the mosque.
Deep and soft, it will give when heaped with prayer.
The children are hard at work in the school of days.10 From their fingers the colours of all-that-will-be fly
and freeze into the frame of all-that-was.
