There’s a certain Slant of light, (320) BY EMILY DICKINSON There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons – That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes – Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – We can find no scar, But internal difference – Where the Meanings, are – None may teach it – Any –…
Category: Poetry
Portraits are to daily faces – Emily Dickinson Poem from about 1860 -Class 3b
Portraits are to daily faces ca. 1860 Emily Dickinson Portraits are to daily faces As an Evening West, To fine, pedantic sunshine— In a satin Vest! Class 4: August 24 Class 1 is August 15 Class 2 is August 17 Class 3 is August 22 Class 4 is August 24 Class 5 is August 29…
Robert Frost’s Mending Wall and Irony Class 6
Class 4: August 24 Assignment 1: Read Robert Frost’s Mending Wall and Answer the Questions Your Response is due at the beginning of Class 5, which is August 29. Mending Wall by Robert Frost – Irony in Literture
Birches by Robert Frost
Birches BY ROBERT FROST When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a…
The Need of Being Versed in Country Things by Robert Frost – Class 2a
The Need of Being Versed in Country Things Robert Frost – 1874-1964 The house had gone to bring again To the midnight sky a sunset glow. Now the chimney was all of the house that stood, Like a pistil after the petals go. The barn opposed across the way, That would have joined the house…
Richard Cory by Edward Arlington Robinson – Focus on Situational Irony and Character
Richard Cory BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, “Good-morning,”…
Robert Frost
Mowing BY ROBERT FROST There was never a sound beside the wood but one, And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground. What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself; Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun, Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound— And that was why it…