Click here to load reader
Post on 23-Jan-2016
Embed Size (px)
DESCRIPTIONBRITISH POETS. Compiled by L.D. Tulupova School 263 2014. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Sonnet 18 William Shakespeare - PowerPoint PPT Presentation
BRITISH POETS Compiled by L.D. TulupovaSchool 2632014
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARESonnet 18 William Shakespeare
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 sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
? , . , ! , ., . , . , - . , .
ROBERT BURNS A Red, Red RoseMy love is like a red, red rose Thats newly sprung in June My love is like the melody Thats sweetly played in tune.As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am IAnd I will love thee still, my dear, Till a the seas gang dry.Till a the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi the sun And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel a while !And I will come again, my love, Thou it were ten thousand mile.
, , , . - , . . , . , , , , , , ... , , . , !
John Anderson, My Jo 1789
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Yourboniebrow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; Butblessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony acantieday, John, We've hadwi'aneanither: Now wemauntotter down, John, And hand in hand we'll go, And sleepthegitherat the foot, John Anderson, my jo.
, , -, , , . , - . , , , ! , , , . , , , , !
" You are old, Father William ,the young man said,"And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head--Do you think, at your age, it is right?""In my youth," Father William replied to his son,"I feared it might injure the brain;But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.""You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--Pray, what is the reason of that?""In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,"I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box --Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--Pray, how did you manage to do it?""In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength which it gave to my jawHas lasted the rest of my life.""You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--What made you so awfully clever?""I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"
, , . . , ? , , , , , , . , , . , , -? , , . , , ?
, , . . , , ! , , : ? , ! . . , , !
DaffodilsI wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.William Wordsworth
, , , . . , , , . , , . , , , . . , , , , , . .
WILLIAM WORDSWORDTH To a Butterfly
STAY near me--do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her, feared to brush The dust from off its wings.
, ! ! ! , , , : ., , , , ., , - , : .
Oscar Wilde : ImpressionsI Les Silhouettes
The sea is flecked with bars of grey,The dull dead wind is out of tune,And like a withered leaf the moonIs blown across the stormy bay. Etched clear upon the pallid sandLies the black boat: a sailor boyClambers aboard in careless joy With laughing face and gleaming hand.And overhead the curlews2 cry,Where through the dusky upland grassThe young brown-throated reapers pass,Like silhouettes against the sky.
Les silhouettes2 . - . , , . , - , , - , . , , , .
: . .