i need analysis for john keat's poem "o solitude if i must with thee dewell"?
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In this sonnet, I think Keats is saying that, if he has to live alone, then he'd rather spend his time in the country than in the city. That's the literal meaning. The poem itself is more complicated. It's hugely ironic that he is addressing solitude as though it were a human being (the address to an inanimate object or quality is called "apostrophe," considering Solitude to be like a human companion is "personification"). The irony is that Solitude doesn't make ideal company, if company is what you're after.\n\nHe knows this and says that he'll be happy to share the experience of the beauty of the forest with Solitude, but he's rather have "the sweet converse of an innocent mind"; namely, he's rather spend his time with the young woman he loves, and report back to Solitude. Better yet, Keats thinks that the greatest joy would be for his lover and himself to flee the wide world and escape into the "haunts" of Solitude; that he and his love could be alone together in the beautiful (bucolic) landscape he imagines.\n\nRemember, the poem isn't just about what it means on the surface, though. It's an interplay between that superficial narrative and the sound - the rhythm, rhyme, and all the patterns English.\n\nI hope this gives you some basic insight into the poem. It's by no means the last word on it, though. You should really read it very carefully over and over again. Try memorizing it. If you know it well enough to recite it, you'll begin to understand its meaning a lot better than anyone can explain it to you. Believe it or not, you'll even be able to write a better paper about it, because you'll KNOW it from your own perspective. Keats's language can connect to all the other stuff in your mind that makes up your experience.\n\n(That's "dwell," by the way. And "Keats's.")
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"If" by Rudyard Kipling! Superb! \nA great poem to take you through the bad times, and make you learn more in good times!\n\n----\n\nIf you can keep your head when all about you \nAre losing theirs and blaming it on you; \nIf you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, \nBut make allowance for their doubting too; \nIf you can wait and not be tired by waiting, \nOr, being lied about, don't deal in lies, \nOr, being hated, don't give way to hating, \nAnd yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; \n\nIf you can dream - and not make dreams your master; \nIf you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; \nIf you can meet with triumph and disaster \nAnd treat those two imposters just the same; \nIf you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken \nTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, \nOr watch the things you gave your life to broken, \nAnd stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; \n\nIf you can make one heap of all your winnings \nAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, \nAnd lose, and start again at your beginnings \nAnd never breath a word about your loss; \nIf you can force your heart and nerve and sinew \nTo serve your turn long after they are gone, \nAnd so hold on when there is nothing in you \nExcept the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; \n\nIf you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, \nOr walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; \nIf neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; \nIf all men count with you, but none too much; \nIf you can fill the unforgiving minute \nWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run - \nYours is the Earth and everything that's in it, \nAnd - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
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Yes, it is John Donne indeed. This is the poem:\nJohn Donne\nMeditation 17\nNunc lento sonitu dicunt, Morieris.\n(Now this bell tolling softly for another,\nsays to me, Thou must die.)\n\n\n\nPerchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it\ntolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as\nthat they who are about me and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me,\nand I know not that. The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions;\nall that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action\nconcerns me, for that child is thereby connected to that head which is my head\ntoo, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a\nman, that action concerns me. All mankind is of one author and is one volume;\nwhen one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into\na better language, and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several\ntranslators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war,\nsome by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind\nup all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie\nopen to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon\nthe preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all;\nbut how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.\nThere was a contention as far as a suit (in which piety and dignity, religion\nand estimation, were mingled) which of the religious orders should ring to\nprayers first in the morning; and it was determined that they should ring first\nthat rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls\nfor our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in\nthat application, that it might be ours as well as his whose indeed it is. The\nbell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet\nfrom that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who\ncasts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? But who takes off his eye from a\ncomet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any\noccasion rings? But who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of\nhimself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a\npiece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea,\nEurope is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of\nthy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me because I am\ninvolved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;\nit tolls for thee. . . .\nfrom Meditation 17\nby John Donne
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Basically it is a poem of 5 lines and must have a set number of syllables\nThe normaly set is a 5 7 5 7 7 ( each number being the number of sylables in each line)\n\nThese sorces will help
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Thomas Gray\nOde on a Distant Prospect of Eton College\n\n".Yet ah! why should they know their fate? \nSince sorrow never comes too late, \nAnd happiness too swiftly flies. \nThought would destroy their paradise. \nNo more; where ignorance is bliss, \n'Tis folly to be wise."\n\nhttp://www.web-books.com/Classics/Poetry/Anthology/Gray_T/OdeOnDistance.htm
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"When I have fears that I may cease to be" is essentially a sonnet;i.e a poem of 14 lines,normally in iambic pentameter,divided into an octave(8 lines) and a sestet(6 lines),and generally concerned with a single thought or feeling;this is virtually in 2 paragraphs on the same subject, divisions of thought as well as rhyme.\nThe form of this sonnet, and the way in which the form structures the argument, is Shakespearean and it expresses Keats's perennial concern with love, death and his poetic destiny.\nHope this helps u understand and enjoy this masterpiece of Keats!
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William Wordworth\n\nI wandered lonely as a cloud \nThat floats on high o'er vales and hills, \nWhen all at once I saw a crowd, \nA host, of golden daffodils; \nBeside the lake, beneath the trees, \nFluttering and dancing in the breeze.\n\nContinuous as the stars that shine \nAnd twinkle on the milky way, \nThey stretched in never-ending line \nAlong the margin of a bay: \nTen thousand saw I at a glance, \nTossing their heads in sprightly dance.\n\nThe waves beside them danced; but they \nOut-did the sparkling waves in glee: \nA poet could not but be gay, \nIn such a jocund company: \nI gazed - and gazed - but little thought \nWhat wealth the show to me had brought:\n\nFor oft, when on my couch I lie \nIn vacant or in pensive mood, \nThey flash upon that inward eye \nWhich is the bliss of solitude; \nAnd then my heart with pleasure fills, \nAnd dances with the daffodils.
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poems of different country(epics) man i need to pay attention in Reading Class a little more
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Love\nThen said Almitra, speak to us of Love.\nAnd he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: \nWhen love beckons to you , follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. \nAnd when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.\nAnd when he speaks to you believe in him,\nThough his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.\nFor even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. \nEven as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.\n\nLike sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.\nHe threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks.\nHe grinds you to whiteness. \nHe kneads you until you are pliant; \nAnd then he assign you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.\nAll these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become fragment of Life’s heart.\n\nBut if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, \nThen it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,\nInto the seasonless world there you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your treas.\nLove gives naught but itself and take naught but from itself.\nLove possesses not nor would it be possessed;\nFor love is sufficient unto love.\nWhen you love you should not say God is in my heart\nAnd think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.\nLove has not other desire but to fulfil itself.\nBut if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:\nTo melt and belike a running brook that sings its melody to the night.\nTo know the pain of too much tenderness.\nAnd to bleed willingly and joyfully .\nTo wake at dawn with a winged heard and give thanks for another day of loving;\nTo rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;\nTo return home at eventide with gratitude;\nAnd then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.\n\nFrom book THE PROPHET BY KAHLIL GIBRAN
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"Death of a Hired Man" \n--------------------------------------------------------------------------------\nRobert Frost’s poem, “Death of a Hired Man” is a story of one family and the man, Silas, who used to work on their farm. The poem is the discussion between Warren and Mary regarding what to do with Silas since he has returned after being told not to come back. Upon hearing of Silas’ return,... \n\nShort Analysis of “The Death of a Hired Man” \n--------------------------------------------------------------------------------\nRobert Frost’s poem, “Death of a Hired Man” is a story of one family and the man, Silas, who used to work on their farm. The poem is the discussion between Warren and Mary regarding what to do with Silas since he has returned after being told not to come back. Upon hearing of Silas’ return,...
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It seems to be well written, I like it, except maybe you could add a stronger conclusion to the poem. :)
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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.
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This poem has more than 4 lines, but it is the neatest poem I have seen about the English language.\n\nWhen the English tongue we speak\nWhy is break not rhymed with freak?\nWill you tell me why it’s true\nWe say sew, but likewise few?\nAnd the maker of a verse,\nCannot rhyme his horse with worse?\nBeard is not the same as heard,\nCord is different from word,\nCow is cow, but low is low,\nShoe is never rhymed with foe.\nThink of hose and dose and lose,\nAnd think of goose and yet of choose,\nThink of comb and tomb and bomb,\nDoll and roll and home and some.\nAnd since pay is rhymed with say,\nWhy not paid with said I pray?\nThink of blood and food and good;\nMould is not pronounced like could.\nWherefore done, but gone and lone -\nIs there any reason known?\nTo sum up all, it seems to me\nSounds and letters don’t agree.
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Text of the play:\nhttp://darkwing.uoregon.edu/~rbear/beggar.html\n\nWikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Beggar's_Opera\n\nSummary and discussion:\nhttp://www.contemplator.com/history/johngay.html
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I agree that <http://www.100words.net/entry/read_member_batch.cfm?entry_member=Laura%20A%20Hill&entry_batch=November&entry_year=2003> is the only site that talks about this poem.  Don't try pinkmonkey.com and the other sites.  I couldn't find the poem comments in their results.
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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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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------------------