udanax Posted December 12, 2008 Share Posted December 12, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Finding IT Posted December 13, 2008 Share Posted December 13, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Finding IT Posted December 13, 2008 Share Posted December 13, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 Percy Bysshe Shelley: Ozymandias I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand 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 read Which 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 decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 John Keats: Ode to a Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, - That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth. O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain - To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: -do I wake or sleep? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 John Keats: Ode on a Grecian Urn Thou still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flow'ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty, -that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 Next week we start the victorian age in Lit   Well next week or the week after we get back from winter break. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Dec 5 2008, 07:47 PM) We get to read Kubla Kahn on Monday Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Kubla Khan OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. A FRAGMENT.  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree : Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round : And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! A savage place ! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced : Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war !  The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Dec 7 2008, 10:50 PM) Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth, another great one. After reading Coleridge and Wordsworth, i can see why they could not do a poem together. Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798 Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye; But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: -feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: -that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on - Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul; While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft - In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart - How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished though With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led -more like a man Flying from something that he dreads than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. -I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. -That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear -both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee; and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance - If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence -wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service; rather say With warmer love -oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 13, 2008 Author Share Posted December 13, 2008 William Wordsworth: The World Is Too Much With Us; Late and Soon The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
udanax Posted December 13, 2008 Share Posted December 13, 2008 Now reading.....Brave New World Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Territorial_Game Posted December 13, 2008 Share Posted December 13, 2008 QUOTE (udanax @ Dec 12 2008, 02:45 AM) Neil Peart refers to the line about measuring out life in coffee spoons in the S&A tour book. Go check it out... Teamwork! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
udanax Posted December 13, 2008 Share Posted December 13, 2008 QUOTE (Territorial_Game @ Dec 13 2008, 04:58 PM) QUOTE (udanax @ Dec 12 2008, 02:45 AM) Neil Peart refers to the line about measuring out life in coffee spoons in the S&A tour book. Go check it out... Teamwork! yeah im going to have to give you credit for finding that one Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 14, 2008 Author Share Posted December 14, 2008 QUOTE (udanax @ Dec 13 2008, 03:28 PM) QUOTE (Territorial_Game @ Dec 13 2008, 04:58 PM) QUOTE (udanax @ Dec 12 2008, 02:45 AM) Neil Peart refers to the line about measuring out life in coffee spoons in the S&A tour book. Go check it out... Teamwork! yeah im going to have to give you credit for finding that one Neil= Amazing writer. I bet he was a book of poetry and stuff stashed away somewhere. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 14, 2008 Author Share Posted December 14, 2008 Richard Lovelace:  SONG. TO LUCASTA, Going beyond the Seas. I. IF to be absent were to be Away from thee ; Or that when I am gone, You or I were alone ; Then my Lucasta might I crave Pity from blustring winde, or swallowing wave.  II. But I'le not sigh one blast or gale To swell my saile, Or pay a teare to swage The foaming blew-Gods rage ; For whether he will let me passe Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.  III. Though Seas and Land betwixt us both, Our Faith and Troth, Like separated soules, All time and space controules : Above the highest sphere wee meet Unseene, unknowne, and greet as Angels greet.  IV. So then we doe anticipate Our after-fate, And are alive i' th' skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speake like spirits unconfin'd In Heav'n, their earthy bodies left behind. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 14, 2008 Author Share Posted December 14, 2008 Richard Lovelace.  SONG. TO LUCASTA, Going to the Warres. I. TELL me not (Sweet) I am unkinde, That from the Nunnerie Of thy chaste breast, and quiet minde, To Warre and Armes I flie.  II. True ; a new Mistresse now I chase, The first Foe in the Field ; And with a stronger Faith imbrace A Sword, a Horse, a Shield.  III. Yet this Inconstancy is such, As you too shall adore ; I could not love thee (Deare) so much, Lov'd I not Honour more. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
doubled_mystic Posted December 15, 2008 Share Posted December 15, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 17, 2008 Author Share Posted December 17, 2008 My teacher made us read two books this year, one which i read, one which i didn't. Pride and Predjudice..... didn't read way tooo boring.   And Frankenstein- Mary Shelley Great book, loved it. Amazing, loved everything about it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
deadwing2112 Posted December 18, 2008 Share Posted December 18, 2008 Yesterday, I was assigned to read "A Rose for Emily" by William Faulkner. It was a great read. The only word that stuck in my mind when I finished it was, "What?!?" Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Finding IT Posted December 19, 2008 Share Posted December 19, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
*Limelight* Posted December 19, 2008 Author Share Posted December 19, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
doubled_mystic Posted December 19, 2008 Share Posted December 19, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Finding IT Posted December 19, 2008 Share Posted December 19, 2008 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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