William Blake (1757-1827) - Weebly



D. H. Lawrence

Piano

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

5 In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor

10 With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

Guiding Questions

1. Jot down a brief paraphrase of the poem. In your paraphrase, clearly show what the speaker says is happening at present and also what he finds himself remembering. Make clear which seems the more powerful in its effect on him.

2. What are the speaker's various feelings? What do you understand from the words insidious and betrays?

3. What is the subject of Lawrence's poem? How would you state its theme?

William Blake (1757-1827)

The Chimney Sweeper

              When my mother died I was very young,

              And my father sold me while yet my tongue

              Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep.

              So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

              5 There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

              That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shav'd, so I said

              Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare

              You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.

              And so he was quiet, and that very night

            10 As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!

            That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,

            Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.

            And by came an Angel who had a bright key,

            And he open'd the coffins & set them all free.

            15 Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run

            And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

            Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,

            They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind.

            And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,

            20 He'd have God for his father & never want joy.

            And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark

            And got with our bags & our brushes to work.

            Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm;

            So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

John Donne (1572-1631)

Death Be Not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

5 From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

10 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

John Lennon (1940-1980)

Paul McCartney (b. 1942)

Eleanor Rigby

Ah, look at all the lonely people!

Ah, look at all the lonely people!

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been,

Lives in a dream,

5 Waits at the window

Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door.

Who is it for?

All the lonely people,

Where do they all come from?

10 All the lonely people,

Where do they all belong?

Father McKenzie,

Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear,

No one comes near

15 Look at him working

Darning his socks in the night when there's nobody there.

What does he care?

All the lonely people,

Where do they all come from?

20 All the lonely people,

Where do they all belong?

Eleanor Rigby

Died in the church and was buried along with her name.

Nobody came.

25 Father McKenzie,

Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave,

No one was saved.

All the lonely people,

Where do they all come from?

30 All the lonely people,

Where do they all belong?

Ah, look at all the lonely people!

Ah, look at all the lonely people!

John Donne (1572-1631)

Holy Sonnet XIV (Batter my heart, three personed God, for You)

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for You

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend.

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn and make me new.

5 I, like an usurped town to another due,

Labor to admit you, but Oh! to no end.

Reason, Your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love You and would be lovèd fain,

10 But am betrothed unto Your enemy;

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;

Take me to You, imprison me, for I,

Except You enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except You ravish me.

Anonymous (Traditional Scottish Ballad)

Sir Patrick Spence

The king sits in Dumferling toune,

Drinking the blude-reid wine:

“O whar will I get guid sailor,

To sail this schip of mine?”  

5 Up and spak an eldern knicht,       

Sat at the kings richt kne:

“Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor

That sails upon the se.”  

The king has written a braid letter,

10 And signd it wi’ his hand,        

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,

Was walking on the sand.  

The first line that Sir Patrick red,

A loud lauch lauched he;

15 The next line that Sir Patrick red,        

The teir blinded his ee.  

“O wha is this has don this deid,

This ill died don to me,

To send me out this time o’ the yeir,

20 To sail upon the se!        

“Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all,

Our guid schip sails the morne:”

“O say na sae, my master deir,

For I feir a deadlie storme.  

25 “Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,        

Wi the auld moone in her arme,

And I feir, I feir, my deir master,

That we will cum to harme.”  

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith

30 To weet their cork-heild schoone;        

Bot lang owre a’ the play wer play’d,

Thair hats they swam aboone.  

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,

Wi thair fans into their hand,

35 Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence        

Cum sailing to the land.  

O lang, lang may the ladies stand,

Wi thair gold kems in their hair,

Waiting for thair ain deir lords,

40 For they’ll se thame na mair.        

Haf owre, half owre to Aberdour,

It’s fiftie fadom deip,

And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,

Wi the Scots lords at his feit.

Timothy Steele (b. 1948)

Summer

Voluptuous in plenty, summer is

Neglectful of the earnest ones who’ve sought her.

She best resides with what she images:

Lakes windless with profound sun-shafted water;

5 Dense orchards in which high-grassed heat grows thick;

The one-lane country road where, on his knees,

A boy initials soft tar with a stick;

Slow creeks which bear flecked light through depths of trees.

And he alone is summer’s who relents

10 In his poor enterprising; who can sense,

In alleys petal-blown, the wealth of chance;

Or can, supine in a deep meadow, pass

Warm hours beneath a moving sky’s expanse,

Chewing the sweetness from long stalks of grass.

Derek Walcott (1932-1963)

Love After Love

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

5 and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

10 all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

15 Sit. Feast on your life.

Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

Theme for English B

The instructor said,

Go home and write

a page tonight.

And let that page come out of you --

5 Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?

I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.

I went to school there, then Durham, then here

to this college on the hill above Harlem.

10 I am the only colored student in my class.

The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem

through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,

Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,

the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator

15 up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you and me

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:

hear you, hear me -- we two -- you, me, talk on this page.

20 (I hear New York, too.) Me -- who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

I like a pipe for a Christmas present,

or records -- Bessie, bop, or Bach.

25 I guess being colored doesn't make me not like

the same things other folks like who are other races.

So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.

But it will be

30 a part of you, instructor.

You are white --

yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.

That's American.

Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.

35 Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that's true!

As I learn from you,

I guess you learn from me --

although you're older -- and white --

40 and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

“I Will Put Chaos Into Fourteen Lines”

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines

And keep him there; and let him thence escape

If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape

Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs

Will strain to nothing in the strict confines 5

Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape,

I hold his essence and amorphous shape,

Till he with Order mingles and combines.

Past are the hours, the years of our duress,

His arrogance, our awful servitude: 10

I have him. He is nothing more nor less

Than something simple not yet understood;

I shall not even force him to confess;

Or answer. I will only make him good.

e e cummings

"Forward to an Exhibit: II" (1945)

Why do you paint?

For exactly the same reason I breathe.

That’s not an answer.

There isn’t any answer.

How long hasn’t there been any answer? 5

As long as I can remember.

And how long have you written?

As long as I can remember.

I mean poetry.

So do I. 10

Tell me, doesn’t your painting interfere with your writing?

Quite the contrary: they love each other dearly.

They’re very different.

Very: one is painting and one is writing.

But your poems are rather hard to understand, whereas your paintings are so easy. 15

Easy?

Of course--you paint flowers and girls and sunsets; things that everybody understands.

I never met him.

Who?

Everybody. 20

Did you ever hear of nonrepresentational painting?

I am.

Pardon me?

I am a painter, and painting is nonrepresentational.

Not all painting. 25

No: housepainting is representational.

And what does a housepainter represent?

Ten dollars an hour.

In other words, you don’t want to be serious--

It takes two to be serious. 30

Well let me see...oh yes, one more question: where will you live after this war is over?

In China; as usual.

China?

Of course.

Wherabouts in China? 35

Where a painter is a poet.

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