what is the name of the poem catullus wrote about julius casear?
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Here is a pretty web site for you to look into to get your answer: http://ancienthistory.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ&sdn=ancienthistory&zu=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.hoocher.com%2Fcatullus.htm
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Beowulf (c. 700-1000 A.D.) is a heroic epic poem. At 3,182 lines, it is notable for its length in comparison to other Old English poems. It represents about 10% of the extant corpus of Old English poetry. The poem is untitled in the manuscript, but has been known as Beowulf since the early 19th century. In the poem, Beowulf, a hero of a Germanic tribe from southern Sweden called the Geats, travels to Denmark to help defeat a monster named Grendel. He later returns to Geatland, where he becomes king, and when he is old he kills a dragon and dies. Although dealing primarily with Scandinavian matters, the work has risen to such prominence that it is sometimes called "England's national epic".
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The Ides of March (15th) is the day Ceasar was killed. \n\nThe others are right about the saying.\n\nMarch goes in like a lion and out like a lamb.\n(cold harsh weather to mild weather)
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The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna \n  \nNot a drum was heard, not a funeral note, \nAs his corse to the rampart we hurried; \nNot a soldier discharged his farewell shot \nO'er the grave where our hero we buried. \n  \nWe buried him darkly at dead of night, \nThe sods with our bayonets turning, \nBy the struggling moonbeam's misty light \nAnd the lanthorn dimly burning. \n  \nNo useless coffin enclosed his breast, \nNot in sheet or in shroud we wound him; \nBut he lay like a warrior taking his rest \nWith his martial cloak around him. \n  \nFew and short were the prayers we said, \nAnd we spoke not a word of sorrow; \nBut we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, \nAnd we bitterly thought of the morrow. \n  \nWe thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed \nAnd smoothed down his lonely pillow, \nThat the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, \nAnd we far away on the billow! \n  \nLightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, \nAnd o'er his cold ashes upbraid him \nBut little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on \nIn the grave where a Briton has laid him. \n  \nBut half of our heavy task was done \nWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring; \nAnd we heard the distant and random gun \nThat the foe was sullenly firing. \n  \nSlowly and sadly we laid him down, \nFrom the field of his fame fresh and gory; \nWe carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, \nBut we left him alone with his glory. \nby CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823)
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SONNET 29 PARAPHRASE \nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, When I've run out of luck and people look down on me, \nI all alone beweep my outcast state All alone I lament my fate as an outcast* \nAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And pray to heaven but my cries go unheard \nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate, And look at myself, cursing my fate, \nWishing me like to one more rich in hope, Wishing I were like one* who had more hope in life \nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Wishing I looked like him; wishing I were surrounded by friends, \nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope, I desire this man's art and that man's range*, \nWith what I most enjoy contented least; I am least contented with what I used to enjoy most. \nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising, But in this mood almost despising myself, \nHaply I think on thee, and then my state, I think of you and then my state of sadness \nLike to the lark at break of day arising Like the lark at the break of day, rises \nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; From the gloomy earth and I sing hyms to heaven; \nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings For thinking of your love brings such happiness to mind \nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings. That then I would not change my state with kings. \nANALYSIS\n\n\n[Line 2]* - The poet's 'outcast state' is possibly a reference to his lack of work as a player due to the closing of the theatres in 1592. It also could be a reference to the attack on Shakespeare at the hands of Robert Greene (see below). \n\n[Line 5]* - Sometimes editors report that, in lines 5 and 6, the poet is referring to his friend, likely the Earl of Southampton. However, if lines 13 and 14 are addressed to the friend, then the previous reference to the friend in lines 5 and 6 seems out of place and illogical. It makes more sense to assume that lines 5 and 6 are not addressed to one person in particular, in keeping with the later references to "this man's art" and "that man's scope". \n\n[Line 7]* - "range" = "range of opportunity". \n\nSonnet 29 shows us the poet at his most insecure and troubled. He feels himself unlucky, disgraced, and jealous of those around him. What is causing the poet's anguish one can only guess, but an examination of the circumstances surrounding his life at the time he wrote sonnet 29 could help us to understand his depression. In 1592, the London theatres closed due to a severe outbreak of the plague. Although it is possible that Shakespeare toured the outlying areas of London with acting companies like Pembroke's Men or Lord Strange's Men, it seems more likely that he left the theatre entirely during this time, possibly to work on his non-dramatic poetry. The closing of the playhouses made it hard for Shakespeare and other actors of the day to earn a living. With plague and poverty threatening his life, it is only natural that he felt "in disgrace with fortune". Moreover, in 1592 there came a scathing attack on Shakespeare by dramatist Robert Greene, who wrote in a deathbed diary: "There is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you; and, being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country." Shakespeare was deeply disturbed by this assault, feeling disgraced in "men's eyes" as well as fortune's.\n\nThe poet is so forlorn that even the passion for his profession as an actor seems to have died (8). But the sonnet ends with a positive affirmation that all is not lost -- that the poet's dear friend can compensate for the grief he feels. See the analysis of Sonnet 30 for more information.
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Excellent poem. I printed it & hung it in my Living room wall.\n Thanks
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William Shakespeare (Known as The Bard of Avon)\n\nSonnet 29\n\nWhen, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,\nI all alone beweep my outcast state\nAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries\nAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,\nWishing me like to one more rich in hope,\nFeatured like him, like him with friends possess'd,\nDesiring this man's art and that man's scope,\nWith what I most enjoy contented least;\nYet in these thoughts myself almost despising,\nHaply I think on thee, and then my state,\nLike to the lark at break of day arising\nFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;\nFor thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings\nThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.
370504
Just fyi I found the poem its\n"I carry your heart" by E E Cummings
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John Betjeman  (later Sir John) was the Queens Poet Lauriate - I love his poems which include incidentally I Like a Nice Cup of Tea:  Slough was I suppose the Essex of its day:\n\n\nSlough \n\nCome friendly bombs and fall on Slough!\nIt isn't fit for humans now, \nThere isn't grass to graze a cow. \nSwarm over, Death! \n\nCome, bombs and blow to smithereens \nThose air -conditioned, bright canteens, \nTinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,\nTinned minds, tinned breath.\n\nMess up the mess they call a town- \nA house for ninety-seven down \nAnd once a week a half a crown\nFor twenty years. \n\nAnd get that man with double chin \nWho'll always cheat and always win, \nWho washes his repulsive skin \nIn women's tears:\n\nAnd smash his desk of polished oak \nAnd smash his hands so used to stroke \nAnd stop his boring dirty joke \nAnd make him yell.\n\nBut spare the bald young clerks who add \nThe profits of the stinking cad; \nIt's not their fault that they are mad, \nThey've tasted Hell. \n\nIt's not their fault they do not know\nThe birdsong from the radio,\nIt's not their fault they often go \nTo Maidenhead \n\nAnd talk of sport and makes of cars \nIn various bogus-Tudor bars \nAnd daren't look up and see the stars\nBut belch instead. \n\nIn labour-saving homes, with care \nTheir wives frizz out peroxide hair \nAnd dry it in synthetic air \nAnd paint their nails. \n\nCome, friendly bombs and fall on Slough \nTo get it ready for the plough.\nThe cabbages are coming now;\nThe earth exhales. \n\n------------------
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Try to look this site ...i hope it could help you finish your research....\n\n\nhttp://www.theotherpages.org/poems/pope-e1.html
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My Last Duchess\n\nThat's my last Duchess painted on the wall,\nLooking as if she were alive. I call\nThat piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands\nWorked busily a day, and there she stands.\nWill 't please you sit and look at her? I said\n"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read\nStrangers like you that pictured countenance,\nThe depth and passion of its earnest glance,\nBut to myself they turned (since none puts by\nThe curtain I have drawn for you, but I)\nAnd seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,\nHow such a glance came there; so, not the first\nAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not\nHer husband's presence only, called that spot\nOf joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps\nFrà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps\nOver my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint\nMust never hope to reproduce the faint\nHalf-flush that dies along her throat"; such stuff\nWas courtesy, she thought, and cause enough\nFor calling up that spot of joy. She had\nA heart . . . how shall I say? . . . too soon made glad,\nToo easily impressed; she liked whate'er\nShe looked on, and her looks went everywhere.\nSir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,\nThe dropping of the daylight in the West,\nThe bough of cherries some officious fool\nBroke in the orchard for her, the white mule\nShe rode with round the terrace--all and each\nWould draw from her alike the approving speech,\nOr blush, at least. She thanked men,--good; but thanked\nSomehow . . . I know not how . . . as if she ranked\nMy gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name\nWith anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame\nThis sort of trifling? Even had you skill\nIn speech--(which I have not)--to make your will\nQuite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this\nOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,\nOr there exceed the mark"--and if she let\nHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly set\nHer wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,\n--E'en then would be some stooping; and I chuse\nNever to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,\nWhene'er I passed her; but who passed without\nMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;\nThen all smiles stopped together. There she stands\nAs if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet\nThe company below, then. I repeat,\nThe Count your Master's known munificence\nIs ample warrant that no just pretence\nOf mine for dowry will be disallowed;\nThough his fair daughter's self, as I avowed\nAt starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go\nTogether down, Sir! Notice Neptune, though,\nTaming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,\nWhich Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.\n\n-- Robert Browning\n\n\nI didn't study this very long, but in lines 9-10 it seems like the duke is protective because he draws a curtain around her.
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An officer formerly attached to a king's household, whose business it was to amuse the court by ludicrous actions and utterances, the absurdity being attested by his motley costume. The king himself being attired with dignity, it took the world some centuries to discover that his own conduct and decrees were sufficiently ridiculous for the amusement not only of his court but of all mankind. The jester was commonly called a fool, but the poets and romancers have ever delighted to represent him as a singularly wise and witty person. In the circus of to-day the melancholy ghost of the court fool effects the dejection of humbler audiences with the same jests wherewith in life he gloomed the marble hall, panged the patrician sense of humor and tapped the tank of royal tears.\n\nThe widow-queen of Portugal\nHad an audacious jester\nWho entered the confessional\nDisguised, and there confessed her.\n\n"Father," she said, "thine ear bend down —\nMy sins are more than scarlet:\nI love my fool — blaspheming clown,\nAnd common, base-born varlet."\n\n"Daughter," the mimic priest replied,\n"That sin, indeed, is awful:\nThe church's pardon is denied\nTo love that is unlawful.\n\n"But since thy stubborn heart will be\nFor him forever pleading,\nThou'dst better make him, by decree,\nA man of birth and breeding."\n\nShe made the fool a duke, in hope\nWith Heaven's taboo to palter;\nThen told a priest, who told the Pope,\nWho damned her from the altar!\n—Barel Dort
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If you're talking about William Wordsworth Longfellow, he's basically famous for being one of the greatest English poets of all times. His poems have been published in books, if that helps. Actually, I have a rather entertaining website to send you to that has information written about WWL in an amusing manner you might appreciate. Give it a try.
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Polyneices and Eteocles, two brothers leading opposite sides in Thebes' civil war, have both been killed in battle. Creon, new ruler of Thebes, has declared that Eteocles will be honored and Polyneices disgraced. The rebel brother's body will not be sanctified by holy rites, and it will lay unburied to be the food of carrion animals. Antigone and Ismene are the sisters of the dead brothers, and they are now the last children of the ill-fated Oedipus. In the opening of the play, Antigone brings Ismene outside the city gates late at night for a secret meeting: Antigone wants to bury Polyneices' body, in defiance of Creon's edict. Ismene refuses to help her, fearing the death penalty, and she is unable to dissuade Antigone from going to do the deed by herself.\n\nCreon enters, along with the Chorus of Theban elders. He seeks their support in the days to come, and in particular their support for his edict regarding Polyneices' body. The Chorus pledges their support. A Sentry enters, reporting fearfully that the body has been buried. A furious Creon orders the Sentry to find the culprit or face death himself. The Sentry leaves, but after a short absence he returns, bringing Antigone with him. Creon questions her, and she does not deny what she has done. She argues unflinchingly with Creon about the morality of the edict and the morality of what she has done. Creon grows angrier, and, thinking Ismene must have helped her, summons the girl. Ismene tries to confess falsely to the crime, seeking to die with her sister, but Antigone will have none of it. Creon orders that the two women be temporarily locked up inside.\n\nHaemon, Creon's son and Antigone's fiancé, enters to pledge allegiance of his father. He initially seems willing to obey Creon. But when Haemon tries gently to persuade his father to spare Antigone, the discussion deteriorates and the two men are soon bitterly insulting each other. Haemon leaves, vowing to never see Creon again.\n\nCreon decides to spare Ismene but to imprison Antigone in a cave. She is brought out of the house, and she bewails her fate and defends her actions one last time. She is taken away, with the Chorus expressing great sorrow because of what is going to happen to her.\n\nTeiresias, the blind prophet, enters. He warns Creon that the gods side with Antigone. Creon accuses Teiresias of being corrupt, and Teiresias responds that because of Creon's mistakes, he will lose one child for the crimes of leaving Polyneices unburied and putting Antigone into the earth. All of Greece will despise him, and the sacrificial offerings of Thebes will not be accepted by the gods.\n\nThe Chorus, terrified, asks Creon to take their advice. He assents, and they tell him that he should bury Polyneices and free Antigone. Creon, shaken, agrees to do it. He leaves with a retinue of men to help him right his previous mistakes. The Chorus delivers a choral ode on/to the god Dionysis, and then a Messenger enters. He tells them that Haemon has killed himself. Eurydice, Creon's wife and Haemon's mother, enters and asks the Messenger to tell her everything. The Messenger reports that Haemon and Antigone have both taken their own lives. Eurydice disappears into the palace.\n\nCreon enters, carrying Haemon's body. He understands that his own actions have caused these events. A Second Messenger arrives to tell Creon and the Chorus that Eurydice has killed herself. With her last breath, she cursed her husband. Creon blames himself for everything that has happened, and, a broken man, he asks his servants to help him inside. The order he valued so much has been protected, and he is still the king, but he has acted against the gods and lost his child and his wife. The Chorus closes by saying that the gods punish the proud, but punishment brings wisdom. \n\n\nSee this for a summary and analysis:\n\nhttp://www.gradesaver.com/classicnotes/titles/antigone/
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"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,\nRaised aloft on a column, a brazen statute of Justice\nStood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,\nAnd in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided\nOver the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.      310\nEven the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,\nHaving no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.\nBut in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;\nMight took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty\nRuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace          315\nThat a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion\nFell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.\nShe, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,\nPatiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.\nAs to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,                320\nLo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder\nSmote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand\nDown on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,\nAnd in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,\nInto whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven."
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<>One of the "Cappadocian Fathers." \n\nhttp://www.newadvent.org/cathen/07016a.htm
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"A Prison to Educate" by Roger McGough\n"If" by Rudyard Kipling- advice for children\n"First Lesson" by Philip Booth\n\nYou can probably find them on google\n\nor you can try a Romanian poet, Lucian Blaga ("Three Facets"):\n\nThe child giggles: "My wisdom and my love is my game."\nThe young man sings: "My game and my wisdom is my love."\nThe old man keeps silent: "My love and my game is my wisdom."