nesecito un poema en ingles para los estudiantes con pronunciacion
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Mira, este es el poema escrito sin pronunciación.
THE BLACK HERALDS
There are blows in life, so terrible... I don't know what to think!
Blows like the wrath of God; as if in the face of them,
the strong current of all that we have suffered
converges in the soul... I don't know what to think!
They are few; but they’re... They open dark ruts
in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.
They might be Attila’s barbarous steeds;
or the black heralds sent to us by Death.
They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adorable faith that Destiny blasphemies.
Those bloody blows are like the sizzling of
some bread that is burning in the oven door.
And man...Poor...poor! Looking back,
as when someone taps us on the shoulder;
he turns his fearful gaze, and all he has lived
converges like a puddle of guilt, in his gaze.
There are blows in life, so terrible... I don't know what to think!
Y asi es con pronunciación escrita.
Der ar blous in laif, so te-he-bol.. Ai don't nou guat tu zink!
Blous laik de wrad of Gad; as if in de feis of dem,
de strong carrent of ol dad wi jav saffred
conver-sh-s in de soul.. Ai don't nou guat tu zink!
Dei ar fiú, bat deir...Dei oupen dark rats
in the faiercest feis and in de strongest back.
Dei maight bi Attila's barbarus stids;
or de blacks jiralds sent tu as bai déath
Dei ar de dip fols of di Craist of de soul,
of som adóra-bl feith dad Destini blasfemis.
Dous bluri blous ar laik de sizling of
som bred dad is berning in de ouven dor
And man, por, por! Luking back
as guen somuan taps as on de shouldah
ji torns jis firful geis, and ol ji jas livd
conver-sh-s laik a pudul of huilt, in jis geis.
Der ar blous in laif, sou ter-he-bol.. Ai don't nou guat tu zink.
Espero que te sirva,saludos.
THE BLACK HERALDS
There are blows in life, so terrible... I don't know what to think!
Blows like the wrath of God; as if in the face of them,
the strong current of all that we have suffered
converges in the soul... I don't know what to think!
They are few; but they’re... They open dark ruts
in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.
They might be Attila’s barbarous steeds;
or the black heralds sent to us by Death.
They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul,
of some adorable faith that Destiny blasphemies.
Those bloody blows are like the sizzling of
some bread that is burning in the oven door.
And man...Poor...poor! Looking back,
as when someone taps us on the shoulder;
he turns his fearful gaze, and all he has lived
converges like a puddle of guilt, in his gaze.
There are blows in life, so terrible... I don't know what to think!
Y asi es con pronunciación escrita.
Der ar blous in laif, so te-he-bol.. Ai don't nou guat tu zink!
Blous laik de wrad of Gad; as if in de feis of dem,
de strong carrent of ol dad wi jav saffred
conver-sh-s in de soul.. Ai don't nou guat tu zink!
Dei ar fiú, bat deir...Dei oupen dark rats
in the faiercest feis and in de strongest back.
Dei maight bi Attila's barbarus stids;
or de blacks jiralds sent tu as bai déath
Dei ar de dip fols of di Craist of de soul,
of som adóra-bl feith dad Destini blasfemis.
Dous bluri blous ar laik de sizling of
som bred dad is berning in de ouven dor
And man, por, por! Luking back
as guen somuan taps as on de shouldah
ji torns jis firful geis, and ol ji jas livd
conver-sh-s laik a pudul of huilt, in jis geis.
Der ar blous in laif, sou ter-he-bol.. Ai don't nou guat tu zink.
Espero que te sirva,saludos.
aln23:
ose el poema esta todo bn pero para el estudiante
No te habia entendido bien eso del estudiante,a que te refieres,.
osea una dedicado a el plis
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She walks un Beaty
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
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
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