Literature Class

[*Limelight*]

i got a test tommorow on the english renisaince and the 17th century, so nervous, study for 3 hours today.

[Finding IT]

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 16 2008, 09:32 PM)

QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 14 2008, 03:18 PM) I think this critic is still reading too much negativity into the woods. The scene is described in very positive terms, eh? We are given gentle images and language, e.g., "easy wind and downy flake" and "lovely, dark and deep." I believe him or her to be right on regarding the call of duty as the pull back from the allure of the woods. I tend to see it more your way, that the woods respresent that desire to follow your instincts, the call of the heart, dangerous as it may be. The safer route led by the harnessed horse is the path most all of us end up taking, but those glimpses into the woods are magic moments. Never really thought about the "harnessed horse" before. What a great image to represent the speaker of the poem, wishing to remove his harness but knowing he can't. Great stuff.

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Nov 16 2008, 10:19 PM)

i got a test tommorow on the english renisaince and the 17th century, so nervous, study for 3 hours today.

Ugh, the final question messed me up cause the teacher threw in a part about a medival poem.

[goose]

Another Frost poem I love...

 

 

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

[udanax]

most people can recognize the first couple lines of this one.... but here's the whole thing. poem #18 by mr. shakespeare the one only

 

 

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 oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal Summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

 

 

My teacher told me that some people question as to whether he wrote this to a woman or a man.....

Edited November 25, 2008 by udanax

[Fridge]

Address to Edinburgh - Robert Burns

 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,

Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs:

From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,

And singing, lone, the lingering hours,

I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

 

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,

As busy Trade his labours plies;

There Architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise:

Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod;

There Learning, with his eagle eyes,

Seeks Science in her coy abode.

 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail;

Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind,

Above the narrow, rural vale:

Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,

Or modest Merit's silent claim;

And never may their sources fail!

And never Envy blot their name!

 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,

Gay as the gilded summer sky,

Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!

Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;

I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own His work indeed divine!

 

There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;

Like some bold veteran, grey in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar:

The pond'rous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,

Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately Dome,

Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:

Alas, how chang'd the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust!

Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!

Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just!

 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,

Whose ancestors, in days of yore,

Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:

Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed,

And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,

Bold-following where your fathers led!

 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs;

Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,

Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs:

From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,

I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

 

 

Says it all really...

[goose]

QUOTE (udanax @ Nov 25 2008, 01:01 AM)

most people can recognize the first couple lines of this one.... but here's the whole thing. poem #18 by mr. shakespeare the one only 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 oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. My teacher told me that some people question as to whether he wrote this to a woman or a man.....

I had to recite this from memory in high school. It's stuck with me ever since.

[deadwing2112]

QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 13 2008, 01:09 AM)

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 10:17 PM) My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening     Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. So the great debate about this poem (and Frost never resolved it when he was asked about it during his life or in letters and papers published posthumously) is whether the poet is considering suicide.   If you have never considered this reading don't immediately dismiss the idea. Pull back and try to read the poem again. There are critics on both sides. Wow. I read this poem first just thinking it was just the narrator passing by, but suicide? Hmm..

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (deadwing2112 @ Nov 25 2008, 07:02 PM)

QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 13 2008, 01:09 AM) QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 10:17 PM) My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening     Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. So the great debate about this poem (and Frost never resolved it when he was asked about it during his life or in letters and papers published posthumously) is whether the poet is considering suicide.   If you have never considered this reading don't immediately dismiss the idea. Pull back and try to read the poem again. There are critics on both sides. Wow. I read this poem first just thinking it was just the narrator passing by, but suicide? Hmm.. It all depends on the interpriatations.   And if you read it over a few times helps, but it's still up to what you think.

[*Limelight*]

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

By Robert Burns

 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,

Has broken nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

An' never miss't!

 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell-

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!

 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men

Gang aft agley,

An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me

The present only toucheth thee:

But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Nov 26 2008, 10:43 PM)

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough By Robert Burns Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell- Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men Gang aft agley, An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e'e. On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!

English Translation:

 

 

Small, sleek, cowering, timorous beast,

O, what a panic is in your breast!

You need not start away so hasty

With hurrying scamper!

I would be loath to run and chase you,

With murdering plough-staff.

 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth born companion

And fellow mortal!

 

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;

What then? Poor beast, you must live!

An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves

Is a small request;

I will get a blessing with what is left,

And never miss it.

 

Your small house, too, in ruin!

It's feeble walls the winds are scattering!

And nothing now, to build a new one,

Of coarse grass green!

And bleak December's winds coming,

Both bitter and keen!

 

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,

And weary winter coming fast,

And cozy here, beneath the blast,

You thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel plough past

Out through your cell.

 

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,

Has cost you many a weary nibble!

Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,

Without house or holding,

To endure the winter's sleety dribble,

And hoar-frost cold.

 

But Mouse, you are not alone,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best laid schemes of mice and men

Go often askew,

And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,

For promised joy!

 

Still you are blest, compared with me!

The present only touches you:

But oh! I backward cast my eye,

On prospects dreary!

And forward, though I cannot see,

I guess and fear!

 

 

[*Limelight*]

Thomas Gray

 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard

 

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

The moping owl does to the moon complain 10

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20

 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour: 35

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,

If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40

 

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 50

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

 

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60

 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 65

Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 75

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80

 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 90

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 95

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

 

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,

'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100

 

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

 

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

 

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 110

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

 

'The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'

 

THE EPITAPH.

 

 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 120

 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

[*Limelight*]

Gullivers Travels By jonathon Swift

 

We read two exercepts, very good.

[*Limelight*]

The Rape of THe Lock By Alexander Pope

 

Great Mock Epic.

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (Fridge @ Nov 25 2008, 01:49 AM)

Address to Edinburgh - Robert Burns Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs: From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labours plies; There Architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise: Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale: Attentive still to Sorrow's wail, Or modest Merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never Envy blot their name! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own His work indeed divine! There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately Dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years, Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam! Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led! Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs; Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs: From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. Says it all really...

We are just studying Robert Burns now.

 

Tommorow i believe we read 2-3 more poems of his, i'm so excited!

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (udanax @ Nov 24 2008, 10:01 PM)

most people can recognize the first couple lines of this one.... but here's the whole thing. poem #18 by mr. shakespeare the one only 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 oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. My teacher told me that some people question as to whether he wrote this to a woman or a man.....

There's always seemed to be a discussion about this, and some of the sonnets shakespeare wrote about them being to a man or woman. and from there his sexual identity.

 

But who cares? They're awesome poems.

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 13 2008, 11:34 AM)

QUOTE (Merely Space @ Nov 13 2008, 01:54 PM) I'm still a sucker for T. S. Elliot - The Wasteland. Absolutely. I love all of the modernists, but Eliot is my fave, especially this early verse from the poem:     What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water.     BTW, as a bit of trivia, did you know the first line of the Waste Land, "April is the cruelest month" is stated in opposition to Chaucer's first line of The Canturbury Tales, "Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote?" I read a quote about what T.S. Elliot said about poetry didn't much agree with it.   But still a good writer.

[*Limelight*]

[*Limelight*]

[goose]

QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Nov 27 2008, 01:56 AM)

He got in trouble for wanting to "eat babies" I know it was hard times when this was made, but come on, who could honestly think he was being serious? Yes i know the facts he has and everything but still.

It's amazing how irony or fantasy can be lost on some people, or even the collective masses. It reminds me of Orson Wells' radio broadcast of "War of the Worlds" that caused such a panic. Scary to think of the mindsets that are out there sometimes.

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 27 2008, 09:26 AM)

QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Nov 27 2008, 01:56 AM) He got in trouble for wanting to "eat babies" I know it was hard times when this was made, but come on, who could honestly think he was being serious? Yes i know the facts he has and everything but still. It's amazing how irony or fantasy can be lost on some people, or even the collective masses. It reminds me of Orson Wells' radio broadcast of "War of the Worlds" that caused such a panic. Scary to think of the mindsets that are out there sometimes. I love war of the worlds.   But i can see the fear from the different time frames, and how values and beliefs were different back then. But now it's just funny to laugh and look back.

[tupelobarchetta]

During my year of high school senior English in 1980-81, my classmates and I had to memorize and recite in front of the class the first 18 lines of The Canterbury Tales Prologue. I was nervous as heck standing in front of the class to say it, but once I was done it was a relief and great feeling of accomplishment.

 

The teacher, a relative by marriage, has a twangy country accent. But when she stood in front of the class and recited the Prologue at the start of our Canterbury Tales lesson, she sounded as if she came from Chaucer's time. Her Middle English was perfect.

 

The teacher (we share the same last name, and many people have asked if I'm her son) reitired a few years ago after 38 years in the classroom. She's one of the most beloved teachers we had in school and is always invited to attend class reunions.

 

I can say parts of the Prologue today, and I've run into the teacher's former students dating back to the 1960s who also can recite portions of it. There's an evangelist who was the 7-foot-1 star on our school's state championship basketball team in 1971; he can still say the entire thing.

 

And now, here's the Prologue:

 

 

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye

(so priketh hem nature in hir corages);

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially from every shires ende

Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Edited November 28, 2008 by tupelobarchetta

[Cygnalschick]

I'm in the process of getting my bachelor's degree in English, so I'm getting to read lots of great literature and poetry.

 

Limey- I like the Shakespeare sonnets you posted! I'm actually taking a course that focuses only on Shakespeare, and although it's been tough, I'm still enjoying it. "The Winter's Tale" is a play I highly recommend "Macbeth" has also been a favorite of mine.

 

In my American Literature class we've studied lots of post World War II poetry, and here are a few of my favorites:

 

Li-Young Lee --> This link takes you to a page that tells the story of his younger life, which is really extraordinary, and also includes some of his poems.

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/291

 

Gwendolyn Brooks, who was the first African American writer to win the Pulitzer prize

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/165

 

Also, Ralph Ellison, an African American writer, who wrote "Invisible Man" has stood out to me

http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/rellison.htm

 

"The Kiterunner" is also an excellent book, written by Khaled Hosseini. This is one of the best books I've ever read

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[goose]

CC, I really liked these lines from Li-Young Lee's "Black Petal", written for a brother who died young...

 

"Does someone want to know the way to spring?

He'll remind you

the flower was never meant to survive

the fruit's triumph.

 

He says an apple's most secret cargo

is the enduring odor of a human childhood,

our mother's linen pressed and stored, our father's voice

walking through the rooms."

 

 

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19804

[Cygnalschick]

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 28 2008, 11:14 PM)

CC, I really liked these lines from Li-Young Lee's "Black Petal", written for a brother who died young... "Does someone want to know the way to spring? He'll remind you the flower was never meant to survive the fruit's triumph. He says an apple's most secret cargo is the enduring odor of a human childhood, our mother's linen pressed and stored, our father's voice walking through the rooms." http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19804

Glad you liked it! I actually got to meet him last tuesday. He came to my university to do a reading, and he signed a book for me He was really a very soft-spoken and witty kind of guy. It was awesome to be in the presence of such a talented poet