A VALEDICTION: FORBIDDING MOURNING



Aunt Jennifer’s TigersAdrienne RichAunt Jennifer’s tigers prance across a screen,Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.They do not fear the men beneath the tree;They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.Aunt Jennifer’s fingers fluttering though her wool(5)Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding bandSits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer’s hand.When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lieStill ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.(10)The tigers in the panel that she madeWill go on prancing, proud and unafraid.A Valediction: Forbidding MourningBy John DonneAs virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, While some of their sad friends do say, The breath goes now, and some say, no: So let us melt, and make no noise, (5)No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did and meant, (10)But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove (15)Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assurèd of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. (20)Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so (25)As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, (30)It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, (35)And makes me end, where I begun. 1633 Ars PoeticaArchibald MacLeishA poem should be palpable and muteAs a globed fruit,DumbAs old medallions to the thumb,Silent as the sleeve-worn stone(5)Of casement ledges where the moss has grown-- A poem should be wordlessAs the flight of birds. *A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs,(10)Leaving, as the moon releasesTwig by twig the night-entangled trees,Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves, Memory by memory the mind--(15)A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs. *A poem should be equal to:Not true.For all the history of grief(20)An empty doorway and a maple leaf.For loveThe leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--A poem should not meanBut be.(25)CuriosityAlastair Reidmay have killed the cat; more likelythe cat was just unlucky, or else curiousto see what death was like, having no causeto go on licking paws, or fatheringlitter on litter of kittens, predictably. (5)Nevertheless, to be curiousis dangerous enough. To distrustwhat is always said, what seems,to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,leave home, smell rats, have hunches(10)do not endear cats to those doggy circleswhere well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunchesare the order of things, and where prevailsmuch wagging of incurious heads and tails.Face it. Curiosity(15)will not cause us to die--only lack of it will.Never to want to seethe other side of the hillor that improbable country(20)where living is an idyll(although a probable hell)would kill us all.Only the curioushave, if they live, a tale(25)worth telling at all.Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,are changeable, marry too many wives,desert their children, chill all dinner tableswith tales of their nine lives.(30)Well, they are lucky. Let them benine-lived and contradictory,curious enough to change, prepared to paythe cat price, which is to dieand die again and again,(35)each time with no less pain.A cat minority of oneis all that can be counted onto tell the truth. And what cats have to tellon each return from hell(40)is this: that dying is what the living do,that dying is what the loving do,and that dead dogs are those who do not knowthat dying is what, to live, each has to do.DepartmentalBy Robert FrostAn ant on the tableclothRan into a dormant mothOf many times his size.He showed not the least surprise.His business wasn't with such.(5)He gave it scarcely a touch,And was off on his duty run.Yet if he encountered oneOf the hive's enquiry squadWhose work is to find out God(10)And the nature of time and space,He would put him onto the case.Ants are a curious race;One crossing with hurried treadThe body of one of their dead(15)Isn't given a moment's arrest-Seems not even impressed.But he no doubts report to anyWith whom he crosses antennae,And they no doubt report(20)To the higher up at court.Then word goes forth in Formic:"Death's come to Jerry McCormic,Our selfless forager Jerry.Will the special Janizary(25)Whose office it is to buryThe dead of the commissaryGo bring him home to his people.Lay him in state on a sepal.Wrap him for shroud in a petal.(30)Embalm him with ichor of nettle.This is the word of your Queen."And presently on the sceneAppears a solemn mortician;And taking formal position(35)With feelers calmly atwiddle,Seizes the dead by the middle,And heaving him high in the air,Carries him out of there.No one stands round to stare.It is nobody else's affair.(40)It couldn't be called ungentle.But how thoroughly departmental.Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Nightby Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lighting they(5)Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,(10)And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light. (15)And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good nightRage, rage against the dying of the light. Some Suggestions:What is the driving metaphor here?What kind of a poem is it – it has a specific name?Dover BeachMatthew ArnoldThe sea is calm tonight, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.(5) Come to the window, sweet is the night air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, (10)At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.Sophocles long ago (15)? ? Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought ? ? Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow ? ? Of human misery; we ? ? Find also in the sound a thought, ? ? Hearing it by this distant northern sea. (20)The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd; But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, (25) Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.Ah, love, let us be true ? ? To one another! for the world, which seems (30)? ? To lie before us like a land of dreams, ? ? So various, so beautiful, so new, ? ? Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, ? ? Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; ? ? And we are here as on a darkling plain (35)? ? Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, ? ? Where ignorant armies clash by night.(1822-1888)Dulce Et Decorum EstWilfred OwenBent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,And towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,(5)But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf gas-shells dropping softly behind.Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumblingFitting the clumsy helmets just in time,(10)But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.In all my dreams before my helpless sight(15)He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.If in some smothering dreams, you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,(20)If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungsBitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--My friend, you would not tell with such high zest(25)To children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.First Published in 1921 Formal ApplicationBy Donald W. Baker“The poets apparently want to rejoin the human race.” TIMEI shall begin by learning to throwthe knife, first at trees, until it sticksin the trunk and quivers every time;next from a chair, using only wrist and fingers, at a thing on the ground,(5)a fresh ant hill or a fallen leaf;then at a moving object, perhapsa pieplate swinging on twine, untilI pot it at least twice in three tries.Meanwhile, I shall be teaching the birds(10)that the skinny fellow in sneakersis a source of suet and bread crumbs,first putting them on a shingle nailed to a pine tree, next scattering them on the needles, closer and closer(15)to my seat, until the proper bird,a towhee, I think, in black and rustand gray, takes tossed crumbs six feet away.Finally, I shall coordinate conditioned reflex and functional(20)form and qualify as Modern Man.You see the splash of blood and feathersand the blade pinning it to the tree?It’s called an “Audubon Crucifix.”The phrase has pleasing (even pious)(25)connotations, like Arbeit Macht Frei,“Molotov Cocktail,” and Enola Gay.Some ThoughtsObserve the divisions of the poem. They do not come with stanza but with what?What possible, intentionally ambiguous, meanings come from the title?The last stanza contains three different allusions – explore them.What are the other allusions in the poem?Who was Audobon??Living in SinBy Adrienne RichShe had thought the studio would keep itself;no dust upon the furniture of love.Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat(5)stalking the picturesque amusing mousehad risen at his urging.Not that at five each separate stair would writheunder the milkman's tramp; that morning lightso coldly would delineate the scraps(10)of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;that on the kitchen shelf among the saucersa pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own --envoy from some village in the moldings...Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,(15)sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;while she, jeered by the minor demons,pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found(20)a towel to dust the table-top,and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.By evening she was back in love again,though not so wholly but throughout the nightshe woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming(25)like a relentless milkman up the stairs.Love Song: I and ThouAlan DuganNothing is plumb, level or square: the studs are bowed, the joistsare shaky by nature, no piece fits any other piece without a gapor pinch, and bent nails(5) dance all over the surfacinglike maggots. By Christ I am no carpenter. I builtthe roof for myself, the walls for myself, the floors(10)for myself, and got hung up in it myself. Idanced with a purple thumb at this house-warming, drunkwith my prime whiskey: rage.(15) Oh I spat rage's nailsinto the frame-up of my work: It held. It settled plumb.level, solid, square and true for that one great moment. Then(20)it screamed and went on through, skewing as wrong the other way.God damned it. This is hell, but I planned it I sawed itI nailed it and I(25) will live in it until it kills me.I can nail my left palm to the left-hand cross-piece butI can't do everything myself. I need a hand to nail the right,(30)a help, a love, a you, a wife.Some Suggestions:1)Do some research on Martin Buber and his I and Thou theory2)What is the extended metaphor3)From Eliot’s work what do we know that a “Love Song” is?Marvell Noir by Ann LauingerSweetheart, if we had the time,A week in bed would be no crime.I'd light to your Camels, pour your Jack;You'd do shiatsu on my back.When you got up to scramble eggs,(5)I'd write you a sonnet to your legs,And you could watch my stubble grow.Yes, gorgeous, we'd take it slow.I'd hear the whole sad tale again:A roadhouse band; you can't trust men; (10)He set you up; you had to eat,And bitter with the bittersweetWas what they dished you; Ginger lied;You weren't there when Sanchez died;You didn't know the pearls were fake. . . (15)Aw, can it, sport! Make no mistake,You're in it, doll, up to your eyeballs!Tears? Please! You'll dilute our highballs,And make that angel face a messFor the nice Lieutenant. I confess(20)I'm nuts for you - but take the rap?You must think I'm some other sap!And, precious, I kind of wish I was.Well, when they spring you, give a buzz;Guess I'll get back to Archie's wife. (25)And you'll get twenty-five to life.You'll have time then, more than enough,?To reminisce about the stuffThat dreams are made of, and the menYou suckered. Sadly, in the pen(30)Your kind of talent goes to waste.But Irish bars are more my tasteThan iron ones: stripes ain't my style.You're going down; I promise I'll?Come visit every other year. (35)Now kiss me, sweet - the squad car's here. Mending WallRobert Frost Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: (5)I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, (10)But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. (15)To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. (20)Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across (25)And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it (30)Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. (35)Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top (40)In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well (45)He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." Mirror Sylvia Plath?I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislikeI am not cruel, only truthful –The eye of a little god, four-cornered.(5)Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so longI think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.Faces and darkness separate us over and over.?Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.(10)Searching my reaches for what she really is.Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.I see her back, and reflect it faithfullyShe rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.I am important to her. She comes and goes.(15)Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old womanRises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. ?Musee Des Beaux ArtsWH AudenAbout suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters; how well, they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting (5)For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course (10)Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may (15)Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, (20)had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.? My Last Duchess by Robert Browning That's my last duchess painted on the wall,Looking as if she were alive. I callThat piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.Will't please you sit and look at her? I said(5)"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never readStrangers like you that pictured countenance,The depth and passion of its earnest glance,But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)(10)And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,How such a glance came there; so, not the firstAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas notHer husband's presence only, called that spotOf joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps(15)Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps"Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint"Must never hope to reproduce the faint"Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuffWas courtesy, she thought, and cause enough(20)For calling up that spot of joy. She hadA heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,Too easily impressed; she liked whate'erShe looked on, and her looks went everywhere.Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, (25)The dropping of the daylight in the West,The bough of cherries some officious foolBroke in the orchard for her, the white muleShe rode with round the terrace—all and eachWould draw from her alike the approving speech,(30)Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thankedSomehow—I know not how—as if she rankedMy gift of a nine-hundred-years-old nameWith anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blameThis sort of trifling? Even had you skill(35)In speech—which I have not—to make your willQuite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this"Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,"Or there exceed the mark"—and if she letHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly set(40)Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,—E'en then would be some stooping; and I chooseNever to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,Whene'er I passed her; but who passed withoutMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;(45)Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meetThe company below, then. I repeat,The Count your master's known munificenceIs ample warrant that no just pretense(50)Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowedAt starting, is my object. Nay we'll goTogether down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,(55)Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! (1812-1889)Sonnet CXXX William ShakespeareMy mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips' red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,(5)But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;(10)I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rareAs any she belied with false compare.On First Looking into Chapman’s HomerJohn Keats (1795-1821)Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-browed Homer rules as his demesne;Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLooked at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.OzymandiasPercy Bysshe ShelleyI met a traveller from an antique landWho said: ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.And on the pedestal these words appear --"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.'Pathedy of MannersBy Ellen KayAt twenty she was brilliant and adored,Phi Beta Kappa, sought for every dance, Captured symbolic logic and the glanceOf men whose interest was their sole reward.She learned the cultured jargon of those bred(5)To antique crystal and authentic pearls,Scorned Wagner, praised the Degas dancing girls,And when she might have thought, conversed instead.She hung up her diploma, went abroad,Saw catalogues of domes and tapestry,(10)Rejected an impoverished marquis,And learned to tell real Wedgwood from a fraud.Back home her breeding led her to espouseA bright young man whose pearl cufflinks were real.They had an ideal marriage, and ideal(15)But lonely children in an ideal house.I saw her yesterday at forty-three,Her children gone, her husband one year dead, Toying with plots to kill time and re-wedIllusions of lost opportunity.(20)But afraid to wonder what she might have knownWith all that wealth and mind had offered her,She shuns conviction, choosing to inferTenets of every mind except her own.A hundred people call, though not one friend,(25)To parry a hundred doubts with nimble talk.Her meanings lost in manners, she will walkAlone in brilliant circles to the end.(1931 - )Snow White and the Seven Deadly Sins R.S. Gwynn Good Catholic girl, she didn't mind the cleaning.All of her household chores, at first, were smallAnd hardly labors one could find demeaning.One's duty was one's refuge, after all.And if she had her doubts at certain moments (5)And once confessed them to the Father, she Was instantly referred to texts in Romans And Peter's First Epistle, chapter III.Years passed. More sinful every day, the Seven Breakfasted, grabbed their pitchforks, donned their horns (10)And sped to contravene the hopes of heaven, Sowing the neighbors' lawns with tares and thorns.She set to work. Pride's hundred looking-glassesOgled her dimly, smeared with prints of lips; Lust's magazines lay strewn--bare tits and asses(15)And flyers for "devices"--chains, cuffs, whips.Gluttony's empties covered half the table, Mingling with Avarice's cards and chips,And she'd been told to sew a Bill Blass labelIn the green blazer Envy'd bought at Gyp's.(20)She knelt to the cold master bathroom floor asIf a petitioner before the Pope,Retrieving several pairs of Sloth's soiled drawers,A sweat-sock and a cake of hairy soap.Then, as she wiped the Windex from the mirror, (25)She noticed, and the vision made her cry, How much she'd grayed and paled, and how much clearer Festered the bruise of Wrath beneath her eye."No poisoned apple needed for this Princess,"She murmured, making X's with her thumb.(30)A car door slammed, bringing her to her senses:Ho-hum. Ho-hum. It's home from work we come.And she was out the window in a second,In time to see a Handsome Prince, of course,Who, spying her distressed condition, beckoned(35)For her to mount (What else?) his snow-white horse.Impeccably he spoke. His smile was glowing. So debonair! So charming! And so Male.She took one step, reversed, and without slowingBeat it to St. Anne's where she took the veil.(40)Note: The poet is male.Some Suggestions:1)Find the extended metaphor2)Find the smaller included metaphors3)Deal with how they support one another4)Make sure to look up the Bible verses referencedSonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truthWilliam ShakespeareWhen my love swears that she is made of truthI do believe her, though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutored youth,Unlearnèd in the world's false subtleties.Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,(5)Although she knows my days are past the best,Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue;On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.But wherefore says she not she is unjust?And wherefore say not I that I am old?(10)O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,And age in love, loves not to have years told.Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,And in our faults by lies we flattered be."That Time Of Year.."(From “Sonnets”, LXXIII)That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadetn in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death ‘s second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou seeest the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.This thou perceiv’st which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long:Terence, This is Stupid StuffA. E. Housman "Terence, this is stupid stuff:You eat your victuals fast enough;There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,To see the rate you drink your beer.But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,(5)It gives a chap the belly-ache.The cow, the old cow, she is dead;It sleeps well, the horned head:We poor lads, 'tis our turn nowTo hear such tunes as killed the cow.(10)Pretty friendship 'tis to rhymeYour friends to death before their timeMoping melancholy mad:Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad." Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,(15)There's brisker pipes than poetry.Say, for what were hop-yards meant,Or why was Burton built on Trent?Oh many a peer of England brewsLivelier liquor than the Muse,(20)And malt does more than Milton canTo justify God's ways to man.Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drinkFor fellows whom it hurts to think:Look into the pewter pot(25)To see the world as the world's not.And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:The mischief is that 'twill not last.Oh I have been to Ludlow fairAnd left my necktie God knows where,(30)And carried half-way home, or near,Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad;And down in lovely muck I've lain,(35)Happy till I woke again.Then I saw the morning sky:Heigho, the tale was all a lie;The world, it was the old world yet,I was I, my things were wet,(40)And nothing now remained to doBut begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has stillMuch good, but much less good than ill,And while the sun and moon endure(45)Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,I'd face it as a wise man would,And train for ill and not for good.'Tis true, the stuff I bring for saleIs not so brisk a brew as ale:(50)Out of a stem that scored the handI wrung it in a weary land.But take it: if the smack is sour,The better for the embittered hour;It should do good to heart and head(55)When your soul is in my soul's stead;And I will friend you, if I may,In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East:There, when kings will sit to feast,(60)They get their fill before they thinkWith poisoned meat and poisoned drink.He gathered all that springs to birthFrom the many-venomed earth;First a little, thence to more,(65)He sampled all her killing store;And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,Sate the king when healths went round.They put arsenic in his meatAnd stared aghast to watch him eat;(70)They poured strychnine in his cupAnd shook to see him drink it up:They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:Them it was their poison hurt.-- I tell the tale that I heard told.(75)Mithridates, he died old. Some Suggestions:Who is speaking? Is it only one speaker?What does the story about the king have to do with anything?What is the stupid stuff?The Hollow MenEliot, Thomas Stearns (1888-1965)? Mistah Kurtz -- He Dead.? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? A penny for the Old Guy? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? IWe are the hollow menWe are the stuffed menLeaning togetherHeadpiece filled with straw.? Alas!Our dried voices, when(5)We whisper togetherAre quiet and meaninglessAs wind in dry grassOr rats' feet over broken glassIn our dry cellar(10)Shape without form, shade without colour,Paralysed force, gesture without motion;Those who have crossedWith direct eyes, to death's other KingdomRemember us--if at all--not as lost(15)Violent souls, but onlyAs the hollow menThe stuffed men.? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? IIEyes I dare not meet in dreamsIn death's dream kingdom(20)These do not appear:There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken columnThere, is a tree swingingAnd voices are(25)In the wind's singingMore distant and more solemnThan a fading star.Let me be no nearerIn death's dream kingdom(30)Let me also wearSuch deliberate disguisesRat's coat, crowskin, crossed stavesIn a fieldBehaving as the wind behaves(35)No nearer--Not that final meetingIn the twilight kingdom? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? IIIThis is the dead landThis is cactus land(40)Here the stone imagesAre raised, here they receiveThe supplication of a dead man's handUnder the twinkle of a fading star.Is it like this(45)In death's other kingdomWaking aloneAt the hour when we areTrembling with tendernessLips that would kiss(50)Form prayers to broken stone.? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? IVThe eyes are not hereThere are no eyes hereIn this valley of dying starsIn this hollow valley(55)This broken jaw of our lost kingdomsIn this last of meeting placesWe grope togetherand avoid speechGathered on this beach of the tumid riverSightless, unless(60)The eyes reappearAs the perpetual starMultifoliate roseOf death's twilight kingdomThe hope only(65)Of empty men.? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? VHere we go round the prickly pearPrickly pear prickly pearHere we go round the prickly pearAt five o'clock in the morning.(70)Between the idea And the realityBetween the motionAnd the actFalls the shadow(75)? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? For Thine is the KingdomBetween the conceptionAnd the creationBetween the emotionAnd the responseFalls the Shadow(80)? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Life is very longBetween the desireAnd the spasmBetween the potencyand the existenceBetween the essence(85)And the descentFalls the Shadow? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? For Thine is the KingdomFor thine isLife isFor Thine is the(90)This is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper.The Man He KilledThomas Hardy "HAD he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! "But ranged as infantry, 5 And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. "I shot him dead because— Because he was my foe, 10Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like—just as I— Was out of work—had sold his traps— 15 No other reason why. "Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat, if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown." 20The Unknown Citizen W. H. Auden (To JS/07/M/378) This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State) He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. (5)Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (10)(Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was Popular with his mates and liked to drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a Paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. (15)Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured And his Health-card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured, Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, (20)A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace he was for peace when there was war he went. He was married and added five children to the population, (25)Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation, And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard. (1940) Some Suggestions:Look carefully for the allusionsWhat kind of government is operating here?Look into Auden’s personal philosophy.To His Coy MistressAndrew Marvell Had we but world enough, and time,This coyness, lady, were no crime.We would sit down, and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long love's day.Thou by the Indian Ganges' side(5)Shouldst rubies find; I by the tideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood;And you should, if you please, refuseTill the conversion of the Jews.(10)My vegetable love should growVaster than empires, and more slow;An hundred years should go to praiseThine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;Two hundred to adore each breast,(15)But thirty thousand to the rest;An age at least to every part,And the last age should show your heart.For, lady, you deserve this state,Nor would I love at lower rate.(20)? ? ? ? But at my back I always hearTime's winged chariot hurrying near;And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity.Thy beauty shall no more be found,(25)Nor, in thy marble vault, shall soundMy echoing song; then worms shall tryThat long preserved virginity,And your quaint honour turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust.(30)The grave's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.? ? ? ? Now therefore, while the youthful hueSits on thy skin like morning dew,And while thy willing soul transpires(35)At every pore with instant fires,Now let us sport us while we may,And now, like amorous birds of prey,Rather at once our time devourThan languish in his slow-chapped power.(40)Let us roll all our strength and allOur sweetness, up into one ball,And tear our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life.Thus, though we cannot make our sun(45)Stand still, yet we will make him run. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIMEBy Robert HerrickGather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today,Tomorrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,(5)The higher he's a gettingThe sooner will his race be run,And nearer he's to setting.That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer;(10)But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes, still succeed the former.Then be not coy, but use your time;And while ye may, go marry:For having lost but once your prime,(15)You may forever tarry. (1561-1674)Traveling through the DarkWilliam Stafford Traveling through the dark I found a deer dead on the edge of the Wilson River road. It is usually best to roll them into the canyon: that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead. By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car (5)and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing; she had stiffened already, almost cold. I dragged her off; she was large in the belly. My fingers touching her side brought me the reason-- her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting, (10)alive, still, never to be born. Beside that mountain road I hesitated. The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights; under the hood purred the steady engine. (15)I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red; around our group I could hear the wilderness listen. I thought hard for us all--my only swerving--, then pushed her over the edge into the river.1960UlyssesAlfred, Lord TennysonIt little profits that an idle king,By this still hearth, among these barren crags,Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and doleUnequal laws unto a savage race,That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. (5) I cannot rest from travel: I will drinkLife to the lees: all times I have enjoy'dGreatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with thoseThat loved me, and alone; on shore, and whenThro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades (10)Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;For always roaming with a hungry heartMuch have I seen and known; cities of menAnd manners, climates, councils, governments,Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; (15)And drunk delight of battle with my peers;Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.I am part of all that I have met;Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades (20)For ever and for ever when I move.How dull it is to pause, to make an end,To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!As tho' to breath were life. Life piled on lifeWere all to little, and of one to me (25)Little remains: but every hour is savedFrom that eternal silence, something more,A bringer of new things; and vile it wereFor some three suns to store and hoard myself,And this gray spirit yearning in desire (30)To follow knowledge like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.This is my son, mine own Telemachus,To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle-Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil (35)This labour, by slow prudence to make mildA rugged people, and thro' soft degreesSubdue them to the useful and the good.Most blameless is he, centred in the sphereOf common duties, decent not to fail (40) In offices of tenderness, and payMeet adoration to my household gods,When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, (45) Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-That ever with a frolic welcome tookThe thunder and the sunshine, and opposedFree hearts, free foreheads- you and I are old;Old age had yet his honour and his toil; (50)Death closes all: but something ere the end,Some work of noble note, may yet be done,Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep (55)Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.Push off, and sitting well in order smiteThe sounding furrows; for my purpose holdsTo sail beyond the sunset, and the baths (60) Of all the western stars, until I die.It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' (65)We are not now that strength which in the old daysMoved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;One equal-temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. (70)[1842]Some suggestions:1)Look up any words or references that you do not understand completely.2)Look for the natural divisions of the poem (3 of them) – who’s speaking? Who is that person speaking to?3)Make note of all of the metaphors used by Tennyson. ................
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