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Why should you read Virginia Woolf? - Iseult Gillespie

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Dreamers by Siegfried Sassoon - Worksheet

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Unit 6 Handout - The Modern Age SET OF HANDOUTS.docx

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Mr. Osborne - Unit Preview 6 - The Modern Era

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This is a modern world and Mr. Osborne has a lot to say about it. In this episode, we discuss the impact that both world wars had on Britain and take a look at relevant works by W.B. Yeats, Virginia Woolf, and Dylan Thomas, as well as speeches by Winston Churchill.

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ARTICLE: When T.S. Eliot Invented the Hipster

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ARTICLE: When T.S. Eliot Invented the Hipster

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The original cuffed-trouser urbanite on the hunt for authenticity-and undercutting it with his own self-consciousness-was J. Alfred Prufrock.

AP/Kara Gordon/The Atlantic

In other words, he is J. Alfred Prufrock.

A true hipster would most likely chafe at this or any other neat definition. The one clearly defining characteristic of a hipster is denial that one is one. "Hipster" has been called " the most divisive characterization of our time." No one wants to identify as one, and everyone wants to mock them. But there is more to hipsterdom than inexplicable mustaches and unblinking irony.

Related Story

Lumbersexuality and Its Discontents
Whatever hipsters are, they cannot be separated from the cultural mood that birthed them or their natural habitat: the city. Neither hipsters nor Prufrock would exist without the modern urban setting that bred their sensibilities. It is in the city that the pulse of a civilization is taken. The cityscape in Eliot's poem, with its skyline "like a patient etherized upon a table," is, in fact, as famous as Prufrock, whose emotionally and spiritually unconsummated desire creates the central tension of the poem.

Such unmet desire is the same that contributes to the ambivalence and detachment of hook-up culture, today's effete substitute for the drained dating rites of yesteryear. Pondering the impossibility of some kind of genuine attachment, Prufrock muses, in lines one might hear faintly echoed in Girls:

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

Prufrock cannot bring himself to ask his companion the "overwhelming question" (which he never identifies) that carries us through the poem. He is paralyzed by the same overwhelming fear of missing out (yes, "FOMO") that plagues a generation facing endless options and clear few choices: "In a minute there is time / For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse," Prufrock laments. Instead, not daring to "disturb the universe," ("how should I presume?" he asks), he engages in one long monologue rather than dialogue. Today, Prufrock might be a blogger-and, in his fixation on trivial objects of beauty, a social-media dilettante.

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The original cuffed-trouser urbanite on the hunt for authenticity-and undercutting it with his own self-consciousness-was J. Alfred Prufrock. In other words, he is J. Alfred Prufrock. A true hipster would most likely chafe at this or any other neat definition. The one clearly defining characteristic of a hipster is denial that one is one.

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James Joyce Araby Writing Style Setting Suspense Plot The Narrator Characterization Reader and Authorial Resolution/Theme Introduction A 12 year old boy lives on North Richmond street with his aunt and uncle in Dublin, Ireland.
the neighbor, Mangan, has a sister who the narrator is strongly attracted to. The Narrator watches her every day through his window.
he finally talks to her, and asks her if she is going to the bazaar. She says that she cannot because she has to go to her convent. He told her he would bring her something back.
he waits for his uncle to return home, so he can get money to go to the bazaar. By the time the uncle gets home it's after 9:00
he takes the money and goes to the bazaar
By the time he gets to the bazaar, only one stall was still open and he did not buy anything.
1. He waits for his uncle to return home, so he can get money to go to the bazaar. By the time the uncle gets home it's after 9:00

2. The neighbor, Mangan, has a sister who the narrator is strongly attracted to. The Narrator watches her through the window every day.

3. By the time he gets to the bazaar, only one stall was still open and he did not buy anything.

4. The Narrator finally talks to her, and asks her if she is going to the bazaar. She says that she cant because she has to go to her convent. He told her he would bring her something back.

5. He takes the money and goes to the bazaar

6.A 12 year old boy lives on North Richmond street with his aunt and uncle, in Dublin, Ireland. Put the following statements in chronological order narrator is watching the girl through the window anticipating the day when he has the courage to talk to her
waiting for the uncle to get home
wondering if he will get the gift for the girl About the Author Araby Dublin during this time Poverty Darkness The True Araby Bazaar
James Joyce was born on February 2, 1882 in Rathgar (a suburb of Dublin, Ireland)
He was born into a middle-class catholic family that struggled to maintain their middle-class ranking
Shortly after his birth, his family was forced to move to the unfashionable and impoverished area of North Dublin
Joyce wrote a collection of short stories called Dublines (Araby is part of this collection)
All of his short stories in some way mirror his life as a child in Dublin Setting (Place) - Dublin, Ireland

Setting (Time) - Turn of the 19th century *Oppression from Great Britain
*Ireland was seeking independence from Great Britain resulting in an uncertain yet hopeful political scene
*In the 1870s a nationalist by the name of Charles Stewart Parnell wanted to give Ireland a larger voice in the British government
*However, his affair with a married woman was made public, scandalizing the citizens of both Ireland and Britain. He did not resign, but his political career was greatly affected and he never recovered from it
*After Parnell's death in 1891, Ireland underwent a cultural revival (They tried to reinvigorate the Irish language and culture)
*Despite their efforts to revive their culture, the bitterness left over from Parnell's affair, and later his death, crushed all hopes the Irish people had of independence and unity.
*Ireland was divided into Protestants and Catholics, Conservatives and Nationalists. At the turn of the 19th century Dublin's population exceeded 400, 000
Dublin did not see the full effect of the industrial revolution and so the number of unemployed people in the city was always high
Araby depicts the struggling middle-class on the verge of becoming impoverished
The narrator lives in a two story house and people have jobs equivalent to those of the struggling middle-class *Joyce based his bazaar loosely on the real Araby Bazaar of 1894.
*The real bazaar was one of the largest public events held in Dublin in the late nineteenth century.
*A large indoor and outdoor space was filled with a large range of goods for sale, multiple restaurants, bars, firework displays, etc.
*Typically it was a fund-raising sale of goods for charity.
*In Joyce's story the Bazaar is "in a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery" (Joyce 291) and it is almost over: "Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness" (Joyce 291).
Characters play in the street at dusk,
The narrator goes to the bazaar after nine o'clock. It's written in 1st person - the narrator is the main character in the story.
but very few characters are named, not even the main character
since there are no names, the characters are a loose representation of people in Irish society It's written in a reminiscent tone - seems to be a man looking back on a memory from his youth.
there is a regretful feel to the piece
"Araby" is a sad and disappointing memory It's full of imagery - mostly Dark vs.Light imagery
the whole story takes place at night, in a dimly lit house, or at dusk - all in the dark
Mangan's sister is always depicted as a silhouette in a bright doorway, or a pale lamp in the darkness - she is light "Or Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in for his tea.." "The wild garden contained a central apple tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenent's rusty bicycle pump." "The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables..." "The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. Authorial Resolution feeling of epiphany
realization of the fruitlessness of trying to please that which oppresses us
accept our individuality.
Until Mangan's sister suggested it, the main character had no intention of going to Araby - it was against his nature
It wasn't until he stood there, alone in the Araby hall, that he realized what the oppression had done to him and made him do. Reader Resolution disappointment, yet still of understanding.
we realize the despair that he feels
we wish there was an alternative to his situation
however, he needs to learn this now, rather than live in unhappy oppression, and be constantly striving to reach unattainable standards
we need to be individuals and do what we would like to do Rising Action: "Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand" Inciting incident:"I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words,and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood" Climax"'If I go," I said 'I will bring you something'" Falling Action: "At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey at the door." Resolution: "Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger" Mangan Mangan's Sister The Uncle The Aunt Mrs. Mercer represents Ireland, and the struggle to break free from the church
lower middle class
driven to please others
hopeful, persistent, shy, withdrawn
appreciates normalcy
not particularly happy narrator's friend
playful
because of Mangan, the narrator is albe to see Mangan's sister and exchange words responsible, mature
representation of the church
she would not go not the bazaar because she had retreat at the convent
makes the narrator commit to something he would not have done, until she mentioned it
it was not in the narrator's nature to go to the bazaar calm, loving, thoughtful
the narrator's mother figure
unlike the uncle, the aunt remembers the narrator wanting to go to the bazaar
representation of the members of the church
not too concerned, happy with the way things are, do not want or see ways to change alcoholic, irresponsible, forgetful
ignores the narrator when he is reminding him of the bazaar
know it all
could symbolize England's rule over Ireland
Ireland does not have control, like the narrator minor character
friend of the Aunt
pawnbroker's widow
narrator sees her collecting as pious
described as being garrulous example of theme

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James Joyce Araby Writing Style Setting Suspense Plot The Narrator Characterization Reader and Authorial Resolution/Theme Introduction A 12 year old boy lives on North Richmond street with his aunt and uncle in Dublin, Ireland. the neighbor, Mangan, has a sister who the narrator is strongly attracted to.

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29

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp:The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-treeand a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

30

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gantlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watchingher door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

31

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang acome-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands togetheruntil they trembled, murmuring: `O love! O love!' many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go.

32

--And why can't you? I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

`It's well for you,' she said.

--If I go, I said, I will bring you something.

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

--Yes, boy, I know.

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humour and

33

walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold, empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old, garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

--I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

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--The people are in bed and after their first sleep now, he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

--Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is.

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. He asked me where I was going and, when I told him a second time, he asked me did I knowThe Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the wordsCafé Chantant

35

were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

--O, I never said such a thing!

--O, but you did!

--O, but I didn't!

--Didn't she say that?

--Yes. I heard her.

--O, there's a... fib!

Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

--No, thank you.

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
World Wide Dubliners was conceived and constructed by Roger B. Blumberg and Wallace Gray
WWDubliners@brown.edu

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29 North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground.

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"In Memory of W.B. Yeats" Annotation  VIDEO

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"In Memory of W.B. Yeats" Annotation  VIDEO

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W H Auden - 'In Memory of W B Yeats' - Annotation

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https://itunes.apple.com/gb/app/poetry-essay/id583646879?mt=8 Annotation prompts for W H Auden's 'In Memory of W B Yeats'. 'In Memory of W B Yeats' is an elegy -- it mourns death. The poem commemorates the life and work of the Irish poet William Butler Yeats (13.06.1865 -- 28.01.1939). He was one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature.

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In Memory of W. B. Yeats - He disappeared in the dead of winter:

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Modernism begins in the late 1800s or early 1900s, climaxing from the 1910s to 1930s as writers and artists throughout Europe, the USA, and beyond create and publish numerous revolutionary works that are still recognized as titanic and influential, even if, a century later, their application as models grows more remote and limited.

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"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" text

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"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" text

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S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot | Poetry Magazine

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Захар Кравчук

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William Butler Yeats - The Second Coming

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A set of picture to poem - The Second Coming by W. B. Yeats. Recited by Ted Hughes.

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Siegfried Sassoon and poets of the Great War

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From the film "Voices in Wartime." Poets in World War 1, including Siegfried Sassoon, who served as a soldier in the British Army during the First World War. Known for his bravery in battle, he was a friend and mentor to fellow poet Wilfred Owen. (Narration: John Stallworthy, Todd Swift, Dominic Hibberd, William Lennox.)

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Dreamers by Siegfried Sassoon video project

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The poem dreamers for my General literature class at Pittsburg State. We do not own any of the footage; it was derived from "The Pacific" the HBO series. Song: "Brothers in Arms" Artist: Ryan Kelly

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Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori Analysis

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Wilfred Owen - 'Dulce et Decorum Est' - Annotation

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https://itunes.apple.com/gb/app/poetry-essay/id583646879?mt=8 Annotation prompts for Wilfred Owen's 'Dulce et Decorum Est'. 'Dulce et Decorum Est' concentrates on the suffering of soldiers, during World War 1, on the battlefield. The soldiers are extremely tired, returning from battle, when a gas attack happens. Owen describes the harrowing events that unfold.

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Dulce et Decorum Est (Footage from the Battle of the Somme)

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A short video using scenes from the actual footage from the Battle of the Somme set to the famous poem by Wilfred Owen - Dulce et Decorum Est.

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Review: A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf

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Hollywood Really Loves This Famous Dylan Thomas Poem

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Vada discusses Dylan Thomas's most famous poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" in her English class. Visit my channel for more films that quote poetry. No copyright infringement intended. I do not own the content of this video and make no money from it.