anglais literatura

I HAVE drifted along this river Until I moored my boat By these crossed trunks. Here the mist moves Over fragile leaves and rushes, 5 Colorless waters and brown, fading hills. You have come from beneath the trees And move within the mist, A floating leaf. O blue flower of the evening, 10 You have touched my face With your leaves of silver. Love me, for I must depart.

"I have drifted along this river" By Richard Aldington

"O what can ail thee, knight at arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. [...] And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing." (1-4, 45-49)

"La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad"

Books! 'tis dull and endless strife, Come, here the woodland linnet, How sweet his music; on my life There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! And he is no mean preacher; Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

"The Tables Turned" (281)

....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 in 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. (93-102) Nature is "The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being." (109-111).

"Tintern Abbey" (288)*

It is a beauteous evening

-It describes an evening walk on the beach with his nine-year-old daughter "dear Child! Dear Girl!". -Wordsworth is reflecting that if his young daughter is seemingly unaffected by the majesty of the scene it is because, being young, she is naturally at one with nature. "If thou appear untouched by solemn thought/thy nature is not therefore less divine/.../God being with thee when we know it not." -There is a lot of religious imagery in this sonnet: "the holy time is quiet as a Nun", "the mighty Being is awake" "the gentleness of heaven", "thou liest in Abraham's bosom" -it's basically one of Wordsworth's poems relating childhood to the divine

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

-Petrarchan sonnet describing London and the River Thames viewed from Westminster Bridge early in the morning -he calls this "a sight so touching in its majesty" but rather than feeling the sublime, or any sort of heightened emotion, he feels a deep sense of calm -"never felt, a calm so deep!" -he then relates this sense of calm to his surroundings, "the river glideth at his own sweet will", "the very houses seems asleep"

The world is too much with us

-in this sonnet Wordsworth is criticizing the world of the First Industrial Revolution, being that it is too absorbed in materialism "getting and spending" and is distancing itself away from Nature -compares the sea, and the winds to sleeping flowers to show how these great forces of nature are now subdued and suppressed in our imaginations - "the winds that will be howling at all hours,/And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers" -he then ends the poem by saying he'd rather be a Pagan so that he could see the ancient Greek gods Proteus and Triton rising from the sea and blowing his horn. This would make him less sad

Virginia Woolf: "Modern Fiction" (N 2150)

-manifesto-like element, calls for change in novelistic methods -the status quo of fiction is materialist -for Woolf, crucial aspect is the psychology of the character -calls for modern writers to pursue psychological realism (Paterian impressions) -the mind receives information through impressions -credits Joyce as spiritual instead of material because he reveals the "innermost flame" -flame reminiscent of Pater's gem-like flame -Mrs. Dalloway published as Woolf's testing ground for the new techniques she calls writers to explore -burn for life itself

Mutability

-the sonnet starts with "from low to high doth dissolution climb/and sink from high to low, along a scale/of awful notes". To understand this better I looked up dissolution, and the definition "the undoing or breaking of bond, tie, etc." helped. Also note that awful here means awe-inspiring -everything in nature is doomed to fall prey to "dissolution," or extinction. Everything changes. Because dissolution affects the full range of nature - high to low, big to small - Wordsworth compares its action to notes on a musical scale. These notes make a kind of song, though a very sad one perhaps "a musical but melancholy chime" -Truth never changes, but the outward forms of truth change. Appearances change and "drop like the tower sublime/Of yesterday" -these appearances, this tower that tumbled "could not even sustain/some casual shout that broke the silent air/or the unimaginable touch of Time". The tower is a symbol for the quiet and mysterious workings of change. It was once so powerful, but in the end it was brought down by the sound of a shout and the touch of Time's hand. -this tower that "royally did wear his crown of weeds" looks like an old medieval ruin of history but is in turn, in this sonnet, a ruin of truth. Ruins crumble and other towers are built

what does matthew arnold think of culture?

1. a mode of thought 2. body of ideas 3. process effort the world needed free play of the mind freedom contra

what is biographia literaria saying???

2 cardinal points of poetry: sympathy and imagination Objective is to investigate imagination, i.e. that which illuminates Primary imagination: "prime agent of all human perception"; analogous to divine powers' work of making the universe; repetition of the eternal and infinite in the finite mind; can generate from within itself, create ideas out of nothing Secondary imagination: "an echo of the former, coexisting with the conscious will"; poetic imagination and craft; engages with pre-existing objects in the world; analyzes into parts and components, rearranges Defamiliarization: art should engage us in a process of defamiliarization, i.e. reawakening and reimagining. World's wonders are obscured by "a film of familiarity" and we don't pick up on beauty. Art can produce a shock of awareness: "genius produces the strongest impressions of novelty" Making the familiar unfamiliar and vice-versa Supernatural v. natural Fancy: a mode of memory that joins pre-existing sensations with new ones, lower than imagination

1. direct treatment of the thing 2. no word not needed, don't dull the image 3. compose musical phrase, not sequence of metronome image - intellectual and emotional complex in an instant in time sense of sudden growth

A few don'ts by an imagist

"There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go."

Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam

I have sat here happy in the gardens, Watching the still pool and the reeds And the dark clouds Which the wind of the upper air Tore like the green leafy boughs Of the divers-hued trees of late summer; But though I greatly delight In these and the water-lilies, That which sets me nighest to weeping Is the rose and white color of the smooth flag-stones, And the pale yellow grasses Among them.

Au Vieux Jardin Related Poem Content Details BY RICHARD ALDINGTON

The light is a wound to me. The soft notes Feed upon the wound. Where wert thou born O thou woe That consumest my life? Whither comest thou? Toothed wind of the seas, No man knows thy beginning. As a bird with strong claws Thou woundest me, O beautiful sorrow.

BEAUTY THOU HAST HURT ME OVERMUCH

"WHY, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? "Where are your books?--that light bequeathed To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind. "You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; 10 As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!" One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply: "The eye--it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. 20 "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? "--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, 30 I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away," 1798.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

O fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade, You also are laid aside.

Fan piece for her imperial lord

Gushing from the mouths of stone men To spread at ease under the sky In granite-lipped basins, Where iris dabble their feet And rustle to a passing wind, The water fills the garden with its rushing, In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, Where trickle and plash the fountains, Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. Splashing down moss-tarnished steps It falls, the water; And the air is throbbing with it; With its gurgling and running; With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. And I wished for night and you. I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, White and shining in the silver-flecked water. While the moon rode over the garden, High in the arch of night, And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. Night and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing!

In a Garden Related Poem Content Details BY AMY LOWELL

John Ruskin: from The Stones of Venice (N 1342)

Major Themes: • Focus on the role of workers, workers' contributions to the work done (Hickman) o Wanted workers to feel respected for their contributions • Perfection demands sacrifices of human dignity (Hickman) • "Ruskin's lament was quintessentially one of the industrial age. In his protest against standardization and routinized mass production, he was railing against exploitation and alienation before such terms had joined... popular Marxist discourse" (John Matteson) • Gothic style as an index of climate (Hickman) o Gothic architecture is characteristic of northern, savage climes o Architecture can be an index of both climate and religion/culture • Focus on men's obedience to women o "Ruskin is smitten with chivalry" (Hickman) o Women, when they are accessing their full potential, are capable of very good judgment Key Passages: • "A kind of mountain brotherhood between the cathedral and the Alp" o Architecture relationship to climate

With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

Mariana

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 thine 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 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal 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 gray 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 to-morrow. 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, Cluster'd 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 cover'd 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, Call'd 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 self-same 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 Charm'd 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 fam'd 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?

Ode to a Nightingale Related Poem Content Details BY JOHN KEATS

"Politics and the English Language" (N 2610)

Orwell says english is in a bad state -- ugly and inaccurate - while it represents us, it's slovenliness encourages foolish thoughts Staleness of imagery -- hackneyed, dead metaphors Lack of precision, vague, not concise, meaningless words, operators or verbal false limbs, phrases used instead of a verb (like make itself felt v. does.) Pretentious diction Seems as though words and meaning have parted company Seen heavily in political writing -- in which the vagueness serves to make their thinking seem concrete and their actions justifiable when they cannot be -- it is insincere -- offers no new ways of speaking, thinking -- the writing seems like the product of unconscious thought Orwell lays out rules to follow (the last is to use common sense and not follow them if needed) -- but to pay attention to the meaning of words -- their true meaning -- and be concise The way that language affects our thoughts The political use of vagueness to distort meaning / shelter their insincerity That language can be changed - that dead metaphors can be dropped Orwell shows how language practice can affect thought, can make for imprecise thought, susceptible to totalitarian discourse Concerned with this also - using language in new ways to spotlight and comment on social system

Language is "plastic": poetry is superior to other art forms because "language is arbitrarily produced by the Imagination and has relation to thoughts alone" whereas other conditions of art have relations to each other (ex. colours, forms, lines, etc. of a painting interact w each other)

PBs

lady of shallot

Part three- sir Lancelot made of words, the attraction of him, contrasting the shadows, his radiance, visual + auditory imagery, the allure of what she lacks - an ongoing effect of flame - sparkling, glittering, blazoned - thinking about something blazing, reinforced by his helmet burned, showered with meteor image, like everything is on fire - poem works on sensory modality of sound - bridal bells ringing merrily -- cues to imagine the dazzling sun, a simultaneous sound and sight, burning nature to look out of window, down at Camelot

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old Man dwells, a little man,— 'Tis said he once was tall. For five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. No man like him the horn could sound, And hill and valley rang with glee When Echo bandied, round and round The halloo of -____ In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, He reeled, and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices! But, oh the heavy change!—bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead—and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. And he is lean and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village Common. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A scrap of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor. This scrap of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what to them avails the land Which he can till no longer? Oft, working by her Husband's side, Ruth does what Simon cannot do; For she, with scanty cause for pride, Is stouter of the two. And, though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little—all That they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more Do his weak ankles swell. My gentle Reader, I perceive, How patiently you've waited, And now I fear that you expect Some tale will be related. O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, And you must kindly take it: It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it. One summer-day I chanced to see This old Man doing all he could To unearth the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand; So vain was his endeavour, That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool," to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffered aid. I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I severed, At which the poor old Man so long And vainly had endeavoured. The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. —I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.

Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman Related Poem Content Details BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The Waiter's Wife" (3058)

Synopsis: Samad and Archie, two middle aged men living in London, have a deep-seated friendship rooted in their time spent together manning a tank in WWII. When they both find themselves living in Willesden in the North West of the city, their two wives become forced into a strange friendship. Alsana, Indian like her husband, begins her relationship with Clara, Archie's wife, on a racially fuelled bias, finding her an exception to her scorn of black people. Clara on the other hand, who has a lesser grasp on language and appears less in the narrative holds no such judgment. The two women meet after their husbands are reunites. What follows is an account of Samad's time spent at work, a waiter in a cheap Indian restaurant in Leicester Square (an exceedingly busy part of London). This culminates in Samad asking his cousin for a raise after divulging that his wife is pregnant. This he is denied. The story ends with an episode between the two wives sitting in the park, now both pregnant. Clara is pregnant with a girl, Alsana with twin boys. Clara states that she would have had an abortion were she pregnant with a boy to which Alsana shrieks in shock, sparking a debate between traditionalism and modernism. The story ends with Clara waiving her cream handkerchief at the park keeper. Major Themes: British diversity Traditionalism vs. Modernism The role of the wife (narratology versus reality; they are the focus of the story despite being arguably passive in it) Key Passages: Introductory paragraph - the two women are introduced as secondary to their husbands: "In the spring of 1975, Samad and Alsana Iqbal left Bangladesh and came to live in Whitechapel, London, the other side of town from Archie and Clara Jones. Samad and Archie had a friendship dating back to the Second World War, back to the hot and claustrophobic Churchill tank in which they sat side by side for three months, close enough to smell each other and to recognize those scents thirty years later when Samad emerged from Gate 12, Heathrow, with a young wife and a paisley patterned luggage set in tow. 'Long time no see,' Archie had said, reaching out to grasp his old friend's palm, but Samad converted the handshake into a hug almost immediately, 'Archibald Jones. Long time no bloody smell." Paragraph 3 - Alsana's systems of categorisation "So some black people are friendly, thought Alsana after that first meeting was over. It was her habit to single one shining exception out of every minority she disliked; certain dentists, certain singers, certain film stars had been granted specialist treatment in the past and now Clara Jones was to be given Alsana's golden reprieve." Ending Section 1/4 - Samad's secret desire: "wanting desperately to be wearing a sign, a large white placard that said: i am not a waiter. that is, i am a waiter, but not just a waiter. i have been a student, a scientist, a soldier. my wife is called alsana. we live in east london but we would like to move north. i am a muslim but allah has forsaken me or i have forsaken allah. i'm not sure. i have an english friend-archie-and others. i am forty-nine but women still turn in the street. sometimes." Samad's cousin, also his boss, and his entrepreneurship: "He took a moment to look with the necessary admiration around the room with its relentless flashes of gold, its thick pile carpet, its furnishings in various shades of yellow and green. One had to admire Ardashir's business sense. He had taken the simple idea of an Indian restaurant (small room, pink tablecloth, loud music, atrocious wallpaper, meals) and just made it bigger. He hadn't improved anything; it was the same old crap but bigger in a bigger building in the biggest tourist trap in London. Leicester Square. You had to admire it and admire the man, who now sat like a benign locust, his slender insectile body swamped in a black leather chair, leaning over the desk, all smiles, a parasite disguised as a philanthropist." The two women's gendered Views on their future children: "'I mean, I just think men have caused enough chaos this century. There's enough bloody men in the world. If I knew I was going to have a boy...' she pauses to prepare her two falsely conscious friends for this new concept, 'I'd have to seriously consider abortion.' [Clara] Alsana screams, claps her hands over one of her own ears and one of Clara's, and then almost chokes on a piece of aubergine with the physical exertion."

Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right! Woman! too long degraded, scorned, opprest; O born to rule in partial Law's despite, Resume thy native empire o'er the breast! Go forth arrayed in panoply divine; That angel pureness which admits no stain; Go, bid proud Man his boasted rule resign, And kiss the golden sceptre of thy reign. Go, gird thyself with grace; collect thy store Of bright artillery glancing from afar; Soft melting tones thy thundering cannon's roar, Blushes and fears thy magazine of war. Thy rights are empire: urge no meaner claim,— Felt, not defined, and if debated, lost; Like sacred mysteries, which withheld from fame, Shunning discussion, are revered the most. Try all that wit and art suggest to bend Of thy imperial foe the stubborn knee; Make treacherous Man thy subject, not thy friend; Thou mayst command, but never canst be free. Awe the licentious, and restrain the rude; Soften the sullen, clear the cloudy brow: Be, more than princes' gifts, thy favours sued;— She hazards all, who will the least allow. But hope not, courted idol of mankind, On this proud eminence secure to stay; Subduing and subdued, thou soon shalt find Thy coldness soften, and thy pride give way. Then, then, abandon each ambitious thought, Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move, In Nature's school, by her soft maxims taught, That separate rights are lost in mutual love.

The Rights of Women Related Poem Content Details BY ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD

Under the lily shadow And the gold And the blue and mauve That the whin and the lilac Pour down on the water, The fishes quiver. Over the green cold leaves And the rippled silver And the tarnished copper Of its neck and beak, Toward the deep black water Beneath the arches, The swan floats slowly. Into the dark of the arch the swan floats And the black depth of my sorrow Bears a white rose of flame.

The Swan by F. S. Flint

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

The Tables Turned Related Poem Content Details BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

HE 1 stood among a crowd at Drumahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness, Before earth made of him her sleepy care; But when a man poured fish into a pile, 5 It seemed they raised their little silver heads, And sang how day a Druid twilight sheds Upon a dim, green, well-beloved isle, Where people love beside star-laden seas; How Time may never mar their faery vows 10 Under the woven roofs of quicken boughs: The singing shook him out of his new ease. As he went by the sands of Lisadill, His mind ran all on money cares and fears, And he had known at last some prudent years 15 Before they heaped his grave under the hill; But while he passed before a plashy place, A lug-worm with its gray and muddy mouth Sang how somewhere to north or west or south There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race; 20 And how beneath those three-times blessed skies A Danaan fruitage makes a shower of moons, And as it falls awakens leafy tunes: And at that singing he was no more wise.

The man Who Dreamed of Fairyland

But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

Up-Hill Related Poem Content Details BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Preface to Some Imagist Poets by Amy Lowell

What does an imagist poem consist of? It uses the language of common speech, but always employed the exact word, not an approximation It creates new rhythms (=new moods) not old rhythms (=old moods) The choice of subject is absolutely free It must present an image "we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague generalities" (like romanticism lol) "To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite" Concentration is the very essence of poetry (for an imagist poem)

"To create new rhythms-- as the expression of new moods-- and not to copy old rhythms, which merely echo old moods. We do not insist upon free verse as the only method of writing poetry. We fight for it as a principle of free liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional forms. In poetry, a new cadence means a new idea."

amy lowell Preface to Some Imagist Poets

You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?

andrea del sarto

But hope not, courted idol of mankind, On this proud eminence secure to stay; Subduing and subdued, thou soon shalt find Thy coldness soften, and they pride give way. Then, then, abandon each ambitious thought, Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move, In Nature's school, by her soft maxims taught, That separate rights are lost in mutual love (25-32)

anna letttt

We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunked men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labours, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pugs' cheek, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang all-come-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in out native land"

araby

Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? I knew the mass of men conceal'd Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; I knew they lived and moved Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet The same heart beats in every human breast!

burl if

And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth for ever chase That flying and elusive shadow, rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea where it goes.

burred lyfe

She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again- (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) Again she saw that bosom old, Again she felt that bosom cold, And drew in her breath with a hissing sound: Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, And nothing saw, but his own street maid, With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. (449-462) A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy; And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread, At ___ she looked askance!- One moment--and the sight was feld! (583-588) Then drawing in her breath aloud, Like one that shuddered, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast: Her silken robe, and inner vest, Dropt to her feet, and full in view, Behold! her bosom and her half side- A sight to dream of, not to tell!

christ abel "Christabel" (462) Viv Synopsis: Christabel is a young, innocent woman who goes out one night to pray for her fiance's well-being. While praying, she meets another woman, named Geraldine, who Christabel remarks as beautiful, and visibly distressed and shaken. Geraldine explains to Christabel that she was abducted by men on white horses, but managed to escape. Seeing her condition, Christabel offers Geraldine shelter at her home for the night. Strange things begin to happen; there are signs of the supernatural everywhere - Geraldine can't cross the water, Christabel's dog barks uncontrollably at Geraldine, and Geraldine can't cross the iron barrier/gate into Christabel's home without her help. Once inside the home, Christabel lets Geraldine stay with her in her room and here, Geraldine casts a spell on Christabel, and in the morning, Christabel doesn't remember anything that happened inside her room that night. She brushes off strange feelings of things that occurred during the night and introduces Geraldine to her father, Sir Leoline. Sir Leoline remembers that Geraldine is actually is long-lost friend's daughter (the two men had a fight about something and never made up), and after hearing Geraldine's story about her abduction, he offers her to be brought home safely by his men. However, as Geraldine is repeating her story to Sir Leoline, Christabel begins to have flashbacks of things that happened the previous night - Geraldine is actually not young and beautiful, but appeared in her true form as an old woman. Because of the spell, Christabel can't physically tell anyone what happened with Geraldine and can only beg her dad, who is now also under Geraldine's spell, to send her away. Sir Leoline's bard also mentions he had visions that something sinister is going on involving Geraldine and Christabel. Sir Leoline is angry at everyone's rudeness towards Geraldine, and the story ends here (the poem is unfinished). Major themes: Good and evil, innocence/naivety vs. wickedness, the supernatural + trance, women and femininity

Again she felt that bosom cold, And drew in her breath with a hissing sound: Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, And nothing saw, but his own street maid, With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. (449-462) A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy; And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread, At ____ she looked askance!- One moment--and the sight was feld! (583-588)

christabel

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

eve of st. agnes

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

eve of st. agnes

What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, And here you catch me at an alley's end Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, Do,—harry out, if you must show your zeal,

fra lippo lippi

Say over again, and yet once over again That thou dost love me. Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year? only minding, Dear To love me also in silence with thy soul When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire Importance of souls in love and depiction of physical intimacy o Idea of carpe diem in the sonnet Life is short and therefore, the speaker tells her beloved to seize the day with her • Sonnet 32 o Line 6-7 looking on myself, I seemed not one For such man's love! Reflects the doubt that EBB felt towards Robert • She ends the relationship from fear of being "played" by her lover • Sonnet 43 o The speaker asks how she loves her beloved and tries to list the different ways in which she loves him. Her love seems to be eternal and to exist everywhere, and she intends to continue loving him after her own death, if God lets her Example of Spenserian sonnet o Line 1 How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Introduces what will drive the poem She will list the reasons as to why she loves him o Line 2-3 Love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight The speaker describes her love using a spatial metaphor: her love extends to the "depth" and "breadth" and "height" that her soul can "reach." It's interesting to think of love as a three-dimensional substance filling the container of her soul Hints that her soul and her love for him are the same thing o Lines 5-6 I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. More down-to-earth feel we get a sense of everyday domestic living → the reality of living with someone o Lines 7-8 I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. Men strive for what is Right based on their free will Her love is pure in the way that it is modest and humble • Modest as when one refuses Praises • Major themes: Love, nonconformity to gender norms, the idea of souls

from "Sonnets From the Portuguese" (1129)* Marina • Love sonnets written for her husband, Robert Browning

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou. Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

in memorial ahh

"Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day."

in memorium ahh

The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the court-yard, There is no sound of foot-fall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

liu- ch'e

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

lotus eaters

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

lotus eaters

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep."

lotus eaters

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

lotus eaters

Who made man the exclusive judge, if woman partake with him the gift of reason? (212) ...chastity must more universally prevail, and that chastity will never be respected in the male world til the person of a woman is not, as it were, idolized, when little virtue or sense embellish it with the grand traces of mental beauty, or the interesting simplicity of affection (213). Women are told from their infancy, and taught by the example of their mothers, that a little knowledge of human weakness, justly termed cunning, softness of temper, outward obedience, and a scrupulous attention to a puerile kind of propriety, will obtain for them the protection of man; and should they be beautiful, every thing else is needles, for, at least, twenty years of their lives (217).

mw

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere (20-24) The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace - all and each

my lasttt duchesss

Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire,

no second troy

5 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

ode: intimations on immortality

The man, in his rough work in open world, must encounter all peril and trial; - to him, therefore, must be the failure, the offense, the inevitable error: often he must be wounded or subdued; often misled; and always hardened. But he guards the woman from all this; within his house, as ruled by her, unless she herself has sought it, need enter no danger, no temptation, no cause of error or offense (102)

of queen's gardens

"Enough that i am free, for months to come May dedicate myself to chosen tasks, May quit the tiresome sea and dwell on shore -- If not a settler on the soil, at least To drink wild water, and to pluck green herbs And gather fruits fresh from their native bough. Nay more, if i may trust myself, this hour Hath brought a gift that consecrates my joy; For i, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven Was blowing on my body, felt within A corresponding mild creative breeze, A vital breeze which travelled gently on O'er things which it had made, and is become a tempest, A redundant energy, vexing its own creation"

prelude

Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.

rhyme of the ancient mariner

Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

song when i am dead my dearest

And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. —Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,

the bishop orders his tomb at st. praxed's church

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, We know, we know that we can smile! But there's a something in this breast, To which thy light words bring no rest, And thy gay smiles no anodyne. Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, And turn those limpid eyes on mine, And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

the buried life

"There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved, so I said, Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair." (5-9)

the chimney sweeper

Then the perilous path was planted, And a river, and a spring, On every cliff and tomb; And on the bleached bones Red clay brought forth;

the marriage of heaven and hell

For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known—cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honored of them all— And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

ulysses

"At first sight experience seems to bury us under a flood of external objects, pressing upon us with a sharp and importunate reality, calling us out of ourselves in a thousand forms of action. But when reflection begins to play upon these objects they are dissipated under its influence; the cohesive force seems suspended like some trick of magic; each object is loosed into a group of impressions -colour, odour, texture- in the mind of the observer. And if we continue to dwell in thought on this world, not of objects in the solidity with which language invests them, but of impressions, unstable, flickering, inconsistent, which burn and are extinguished with our consciousness of them, it contracts still further: the whole scope of observation is dwarfed into the narrow chamber of the individual mind. Experience, already reduced to a group of impressions, is ringed round for each one of us by that thick wall of personality through which no real voice has ever pierced on its way to us, or from us to that which we can only conjecture to be without." (N 1544)

walter pater Studies in the History of the Renaissance (N

"To William Wordsworth" (484)

• Response to Wordsworth's Prelude (autobiographical poem in which WW outlines his poetic development, regarded as WW's magnum opus) • Praises WW (says WW's mind is "prophetic," and that his soul "received the light reflected" → Romantic idea of the visionary lamp). Notes WW's understanding of external and internal human nature. WW is the "great Bard" • C downplays his own poetic achievement. He's receptive and teachable: "I listened with a heart forlorn". When WW recites, C sits "in silence listening, like a devout child" • Outlines 'character and privilege' of genius, the capacity of an individual: "genius given" • Current of religious reverence runs along the poem. C hangs on to WW's recitation even after it finishes: "when I rose, I found myself in prayer". Refers to WW's "communion" with him. Admiration taken to an extreme

"Ode to a Nightingale" (927)

• Summary: The speaker is listening to the nightingale and contemplating life. He feels bittersweet thinking about the nightingale's life, and he wants to fade into the forest with the nightingale to escape the concerns of life, age, and time. In the dark forest, where he can't see anything, but he can smell nature and hear the nightingale singing, and he thinks that this would not be a bad place to die. But the nightingale is immortal, because so many people have heard its song throughout history. Then the nightingale leaves, snapping the speaker out of his imagined reality. He's pissed and confused, unable to tell the difference between dreams and reality. • Major Themes: o Mortality: Keats references age and time quite a few times, which are references to his own mortality. Keats is comparing his mortality and the responsibilities that come with it to the carefree, immortal life of the nightingale. There's also this idea that's prevalent in a lot of poetry of not a literal immortal life, but a sort of immortality that comes with art. Like the nightingale isn't literally immortal, but the idea of the nightingale is immortal because everyone throughout history has heard nightingales sing. o Nature: The nightingale is a major symbol in this poem, and the poem is set in a dark forest far from humanity. Nature is a place and a frame of mind, associated with serenity and happiness, but ultimately unsustainable, as the speaker wakes up at the end of the poem. (This is probably a reiteration of Shakespeare's concept of the Green World, as we know that Shakespeare was a major influence on Keats' poetry). o Reality: Again, the concept of the Green World. The forest where this poem takes place is a sort of liminal space, where the speaker is able to be absorbed into nature. The lines between dreams and reality are blurred, as the speaker tries to use his imagination to create a new reality, and it works for as long as the nightingale is singing. o drugs/self medication in illness