<?xml version="1.0"?>
<rss version="2.0">
   <channel>
      <title>Lucy and Pickles Fan Club  Monday Poem Padlet  by Alexis Colucy</title>
      <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p</link>
      <description>Made with a dash of wit -- Emerson McGinnis, Kytana Maldonado, Sarah Karkoff, Megan Gawronski, James Hettinga, Marc Franquesa-Guivernau, David Beebe</description>
      <language>en-us</language>
      <pubDate>2021-02-12 16:58:47 UTC</pubDate>
      <lastBuildDate>2025-04-12 18:40:29 UTC</lastBuildDate>
      <webMaster>hello@padlet.com</webMaster>
      <image>
         <url>https://padlet.net/icons/png/1f4dd.png</url>
      </image>
      <item>
         <title>Frost at Midnight by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1197333827</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The Frost performs its secret ministry,</div><div>Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry</div><div>Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.</div><div>The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,</div><div>Have left me to that solitude, which suits          5</div><div>Abstruser musings: save that at my side</div><div>My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.</div><div>'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs</div><div>And vexes meditation with its strange</div><div>And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,        10</div><div>This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,</div><div>With all the numberless goings-on of life,</div><div>Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame</div><div>Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;</div><div>Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,         15</div><div><br></div><div>Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.</div><div>Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature</div><div>Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,</div><div>Making it a companionable form,</div><div>Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit          20</div><div>By its own moods interprets, every where</div><div>Echo or mirror seeking of itself,</div><div>And makes a toy of Thought.</div><div><br></div><div>                      But O! how oft,</div><div>How oft, at school, with most believing mind,          25</div><div>Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,</div><div>To watch that fluttering <em>stranger</em> ! and as oft</div><div>With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt</div><div>Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,</div><div>Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang           30</div><div>From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,</div><div>So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me</div><div>With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear</div><div>Most like articulate sounds of things to come!</div><div>So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,            35</div><div>Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!</div><div>And so I brooded all the following morn,</div><div>Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye</div><div>Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:</div><div>Save if the door half opened, and I snatched        40</div><div>A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,</div><div>For still I hoped to see the <em>stranger's</em> face,</div><div>Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,</div><div>My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!</div><div><br></div><div>         Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,         45</div><div>Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,</div><div>Fill up the intersperséd vacancies</div><div>And momentary pauses of the thought!</div><div>My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart</div><div>With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,          50</div><div>And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,</div><div>And in far other scenes! For I was reared</div><div>In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,</div><div>And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.</div><div>But <em>thou</em>, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze         55</div><div>By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags</div><div>Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,</div><div>Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores</div><div>And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear</div><div>The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible            60</div><div>Of that eternal language, which thy God</div><div>Utters, who from eternity doth teach</div><div>Himself in all, and all things in himself.</div><div>Great universal Teacher! he shall mould</div><div>Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.               65</div><div><br></div><div>         Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,</div><div>Whether the summer clothe the general earth</div><div>With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing</div><div>Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch</div><div>Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch         70</div><div>Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall</div><div>Heard only in the trances of the blast,</div><div>Or if the secret ministry of frost</div><div>Shall hang them up in silent icicles,</div><div>Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.            75</div><div><br></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-12 17:01:17 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1197333827</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Attendance</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203871579</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Leader: David <br>Note Taker: Kytana<br>Presenter: Emerson<br>Absent: James</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 14:44:10 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203871579</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;The Education of Achilles&quot;</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203896143</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Eugène Delacroix (French, 1798 - 1863)<br><em>The Education of Achilles</em>, 1862, Pastel<br>30.6 × 41.9 cm (12 1/16 × 16 1/2 in.), 86.GG.728<br>The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="https://padlet-uploads.storage.googleapis.com/1019549221/c4475ca8d9aaa743fa546e74f0a84605/4C8DBB22_9809_4F0E_886A_A112744735E6.jpeg" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 14:52:24 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203896143</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Frost</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203900764</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Represents age, death (looming), connection to nature, connection to God <em>through Nature</em></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 14:53:59 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203900764</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee&quot;</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203905245</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>All stages of life are beautiful/worthwhile</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 14:55:28 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203905245</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Nature v. The City</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203909207</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>speaker grew up in the city, so he only connected with nature on occasion, but the child is connecting with nature at an early age</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 14:56:47 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203909207</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Frost v. Fire (Key Connection)</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203913468</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Aging/Death/Sleep/Quiet/Cold/Still/Old v. Vitality/Life/Noise/Heat/ Movement/Young</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 14:58:11 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203913468</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Thoughts From My Sick Bed&quot;</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203920062</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Dorothy Wordsworth, Similar musings on age and reverence of nature</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 15:00:26 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203920062</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Ulysses&quot;</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203946075</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Tennyson, rejection of death</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 15:09:23 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203946075</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Speaker Reflected in Child</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203959518</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The child will get what he is missing I nature, god, and experience</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 15:13:41 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203959518</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog&quot;</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203970419</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 15:17:19 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203970419</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Spirit &amp; Fire</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203986149</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 15:22:13 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203986149</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203993752</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>"Dream Within A Dream," "Winter: My Secret," "Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening," "If," "Tintern abby," <em>Frankenstein</em>,"Fears and Solitude"</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 15:24:46 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1203993752</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Close Reading #1</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1204203064</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>https://docs.google.com/document/d/1eFaPrhyhvJGiTY6M4B1jWmjPKjHoQ-k0MazMVCWv5Fs/edit?usp=sharing</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-15 16:32:34 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1204203064</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni BY PERCY SHELLEY</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1207141115</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The everlasting universe of things<br>Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,<br>Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom—<br>Now lending splendour, where from secret springs<br>The source of human thought its tribute brings                5<br>Of waters—with a sound but half its own,<br>Such as a feeble brook will oft assume,<br>In the wild woods, among the mountains lone,<br>Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,<br>Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river               10<br>Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.<br><br>                                     II<br>Thus thou, Ravine of Arve—dark, deep Ravine—<br>Thou many-colour'd, many-voiced vale,<br>Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail<br>Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,                 15<br>Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down<br>From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,<br>Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame<br>Of lightning through the tempest;—thou dost lie,<br>Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,                   20<br>Children of elder time, in whose devotion<br>The chainless winds still come and ever came<br>To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging<br>To hear—an old and solemn harmony;<br>Thine earthly rainbows stretch'd across the sweep              25<br>Of the aethereal waterfall, whose veil<br>Robes some unsculptur'd image; the strange sleep<br>Which when the voices of the desert fail<br>Wraps all in its own deep eternity;<br>Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion,                     30<br>A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;<br>Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,<br>Thou art the path of that unresting sound—<br>Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee<br>I seem as in a trance sublime and strange                       35<br>To muse on my own separate fantasy,<br>My own, my human mind, which passively<br>Now renders and receives fast influencings,<br>Holding an unremitting interchange<br>With the clear universe of things around;                40<br>One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings<br>Now float above thy darkness, and now rest<br>Where that or thou art no unbidden guest,<br>In the still cave of the witch Poesy,<br>Seeking among the shadows that pass by                   45<br>Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee,<br>Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast<br>From which they fled recalls them, thou art there!<br><br>                                     III<br>Some say that gleams of a remoter world<br>Visit the soul in sleep, that death is slumber,              50<br>And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber<br>Of those who wake and live.—I look on high;<br>Has some unknown omnipotence unfurl'd<br>The veil of life and death? or do I lie<br>In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep                55<br>Spread far around and inaccessibly<br>Its circles? For the very spirit fails,<br>Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep<br>That vanishes among the viewless gales!<br>Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,                           60<br>Mont Blanc appears—still, snowy, and serene;<br>Its subject mountains their unearthly forms<br>Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between<br>Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,<br>Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread                   65<br>And wind among the accumulated steeps;<br>A desert peopled by the storms alone,<br>Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone,<br>And the wolf tracks her there—how hideously<br>Its shapes are heap'd around! rude, bare, and high,                70<br>Ghastly, and scarr'd, and riven.—Is this the scene<br>Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young<br>Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea<br>Of fire envelop once this silent snow?<br>None can reply—all seems eternal now.                   75<br>The wilderness has a mysterious tongue<br>Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,<br>So solemn, so serene, that man may be,<br>But for such faith, with Nature reconcil'd;<br>Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal              80<br>Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood<br>By all, but which the wise, and great, and good<br>Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.<br><br>                                     IV<br>The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams,<br>Ocean, and all the living things that dwell             85<br>Within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain,<br>Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane,<br>The torpor of the year when feeble dreams<br>Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep<br>Holds every future leaf and flower; the bound               90<br>With which from that detested trance they leap;<br>The works and ways of man, their death and birth,<br>And that of him and all that his may be;<br>All things that move and breathe with toil and sound<br>Are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell.               95<br>Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,<br>Remote, serene, and inaccessible:<br>And this, the naked countenance of earth,<br>On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains<br>Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep           100<br>Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains,<br>Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice<br>Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power<br>Have pil'd: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,<br>A city of death, distinct with many a tower          105<br>And wall impregnable of beaming ice.<br>Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin<br>Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky<br>Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing<br>Its destin'd path, or in the mangled soil                      110<br>Branchless and shatter'd stand; the rocks, drawn down<br>From yon remotest waste, have overthrown<br>The limits of the dead and living world,<br>Never to be reclaim'd. The dwelling-place<br>Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;                 115<br>Their food and their retreat for ever gone,<br>So much of life and joy is lost. The race<br>Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling<br>Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream,<br>And their place is not known. Below, vast caves               120<br>Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam,<br>Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling<br>Meet in the vale, and one majestic River,<br>The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever<br>Rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves,                    125<br>Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air.<br><br>                                     V<br>Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:—the power is there,<br>The still and solemn power of many sights,<br>And many sounds, and much of life and death.<br>In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,                   130<br>In the lone glare of day, the snows descend<br>Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there,<br>Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,<br>Or the star-beams dart through them. Winds contend<br>Silently there, and heap the snow with breath                       135<br>Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home<br>The voiceless lightning in these solitudes<br>Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods<br>Over the snow. The secret Strength of things<br>Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome              140<br>Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!<br>And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea,<br>If to the human mind's imaginings<br>Silence and solitude were vacancy?</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-16 14:40:21 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1207141115</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226668414</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Goes between a metaphorical river, then to an actual river, makes the metaphor more of a concrete thing</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:35:24 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226668414</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Sublime</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226685662</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The idea that nature is both terrifying and beautiful, or essentially just awe inducing. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:37:56 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226685662</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections - &quot;Tintern Abbey&quot; by Wordsworth</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226698019</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Tintern Abbey is more of Wordsworth looking at nature in awe, but in Mont Blanc Shelley specifically talks about human thought and nature being connected and intertwined. Wordsworth views humanity as more of a passive being that views and admires nature</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:40:01 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226698019</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;With the sound but half its own&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226710061</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Humans exaggerate nature, half of nature exists and is viewed as something that is its own, but the other half comes from human thought, or human imagination </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:42:13 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226710061</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection - &quot;Azathoth&quot; by H.P. Lovecraft</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226720631</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>People are trapped in this almost liminal space between humanity and nature? The poem could be viewed as either Romantic, or as a creepy horror story depending on what you focus on. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:44:04 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226720631</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;In the still cave of the witch Poesy&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226753886</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Poesy means poetry, it's a metaphor for poetic inspiration</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:49:08 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226753886</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Awful scene&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226761111</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Something beautiful and terror inspiring, it is the epitome of the sublime. In the christian bible, god is often referred to as awful in the idea of awe inspiring. While Romantics often connected God to nature, it seems as though Shelley is making nature his religion, and that he is not connecting it to the Biblical God. The pantheism, or viewing of nature as a god itself, may be his way of reconciling with Christianity. Shelley was a well known atheist (he was thrown out of Oxford for co-writing <em>The Necessity of Atheism.</em></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:50:26 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226761111</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections - &quot;Frost at Midnight by Colridge</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226792407</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Mont Blanc talks about the power of ice, and flame. In frosted midnight,  frost and flame were almost two contrasting images, but in Mont Blanc they are both portrayed as powerful, awe inspiring things that can cause/control life and death. People consider frost and fire as opposing ideas, but in Mont Blanc and Frost at Midnight, they're almost all one part of nature as powerful and something with power over life and death</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:56:02 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226792407</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections - Sea of Ice, a painting by Frederick</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226805717</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The painting of this ship goes to the idea that nature will always be superior to man, ice is a place of death and nature will always defeat anyone who tries to intrude on it. The shipwreck is on the side of the painting though, it's not the focal point of the painting, the ice and nature is. It sort of connects to the idea that nature and God are connected, or at least similar in how they are viewed whether by an atheist or religious person</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 14:58:20 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226805717</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections - The deforestation and global warming of today</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226825476</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Would these poets view nature differently if they knew about the global warming or deforestation of today? Because humans really affect nature and change it to a certain extent. Or would they view nature as awe inspiring and with as much control over life and death as they have in their poems, because global warming is resulting in worse hurricanes, tsunamis, unusual cold and heat waves that are killing thousands, etc. Is nature still viewed as a Godlike eternal being, or as something that humans can affect and order to some certain extent?<br>-- The Dominion delusion: the idea that humans believe we have dominion over nature, that we've developed control through science</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:01:51 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226825476</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Sea of Ice </title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226830691</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sea_of_Ice#/media/File:Caspar_David_Friedrich_-_Das_Eismeer_-_Hamburger_Kunsthalle_-_02.jpg" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:02:44 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226830691</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Pagan examples</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226853253</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The mountain is given godlike qualities, there is a sense of mysticism from it. The ghosts and phantoms talked about may be a pushback against Christianity, b/c of the huge debate around paganism and christianity. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:06:31 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226853253</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections - King Arthur story</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226859907</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Connects kind of to the Mists of Avalon, a story that explores the idea that Christianity and paganism are pinned against each other</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:07:38 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226859907</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;A city of death&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226871508</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Mont Blanc is one of the most deadly mountains in the world, due to all the normal mountain problems of avalanches and cliffs, but also because people view it as an easy climb and die because they don't know what they're doing. It is really a city of death, when people underestimate nature it kills them. Ie not having awe of the sublime is dangerous....</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:09:36 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226871508</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;If to the human mind&#39;s imaginings / Silence and solitude were vacancy?&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226885289</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Was this ending referring to the mountain, or questioning whether people undermine and undervalue things that aren't loud or glamorous, essentially ignoring silence as something important. Quiet and silence don't necessarily mean emptiness.<br>Alexis "if a tree falls down in the middle of a forest does it make a sound or.....if a mountain stands in the silent Alps and there’s nobody to appreciate it, does its lack of sound have any meaning?" - without shelley around to write about it, does this mountain's silence mean anything? </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:11:59 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226885289</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226903271</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Does anything have meaning unless we subscribe meaning to it? So do people actually have significance, since they are what gives nature importance (according to Shelley). This is a very sudden shift in tone. <br>Very human centric way of thinking, does the presence of nature, of animals, have no actual meaning except for how it helps humans (mentally or physically), just very egotistical and therefore very human </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:15:03 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226903271</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226924294</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Humans may be a tiny blip on nature timeline, we may be insignificant to nature, but we are important to ourselves and other humans </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:18:31 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226924294</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections - Absurdism</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226928026</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Life has the meaning we think it should have,</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:19:08 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226928026</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The structure of the poem - 5 parts</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226936126</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>It was in iambic pentameter - so do the five parts mirror the meter? <br><br>Also the variable rhyme scheme might represent how variable and unpredictable nature itself is.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:20:19 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226936126</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Frederick Painting </title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226950210</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The duality of the push and pull of human eistence and significance compared to nature. The subject is foregrounded in the painting, and his hair is windswept, but the tree line and rock formations are also prominent and the clouds impede on the fog surrounding the subject. ie the imagination of humans gives nature some of its power? </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:22:49 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226950210</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Wanderer above the Sea of Fog</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226970257</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanderer_above_the_Sea_of_Fog#/media/File:Caspar_David_Friedrich_-_Wanderer_above_the_sea_of_fog.jpg" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 15:25:39 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1226970257</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Ode on a Grecian Urn BY JOHN KEATS</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1228399326</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,<br>       Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,<br>Sylvan historian, who canst thus express<br>       A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:<br>What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape          5<br>       Of deities or mortals, or of both,<br>               In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?<br>       What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?<br>What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?<br>               What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?         10<br><br>Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard<br>       Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;<br>Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,<br>       Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:<br>Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave             15<br>       Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;<br>               Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,<br>Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;<br>       She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,<br>               For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!             20<br><br>Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed<br>         Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;<br>And, happy melodist, unwearied,<br>         For ever piping songs for ever new;<br>More happy love! more happy, happy love!              25<br>         For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,<br>                For ever panting, and for ever young;<br>All breathing human passion far above,<br>         That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,<br>                A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.              30<br><br>Who are these coming to the sacrifice?<br>         To what green altar, O mysterious priest,<br>Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,<br>         And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?<br>What little town by river or sea shore,                            35<br>         Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,<br>                Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?<br>And, little town, thy streets for evermore<br>         Will silent be; and not a soul to tell<br>                Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.            40<br><br>O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede<br>         Of marble men and maidens overwrought,<br>With forest branches and the trodden weed;<br>         Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought<br>As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!                                            45<br>         When old age shall this generation waste,<br>                Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe<br>Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,<br>         "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all<br>                Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."         50</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-22 19:36:40 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1228399326</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>On the Grasshopper and CricketBY JOHN KEATS</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1236641018</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The Poetry of earth is never dead:    <br>  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,    <br>  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run    <br>From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;    <br>That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead            5   <br>  In summer luxury,—he has never done    <br>  With his delights; for when tired out with fun    <br>He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.    <br>The poetry of earth is ceasing never:    <br>  On a lone winter evening, when the frost                         10<br>    Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills    <br>The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,    <br>  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,    <br>    The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-02-24 14:59:07 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1236641018</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Cold Beauty</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253362422</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Unchanging/Perfect beauty lacks life and lacks change</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:40:03 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253362422</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Attendance</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253370988</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Reader: David <br>Leader: Emerson<br>Notetaker Kytana<br>Absent: James, Marc</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:41:27 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253370988</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Art </title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253392481</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Freezes things in time, things captured by art are stuck in that state, sucks the life out of those things, makes those things cold</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:45:00 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253392481</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Ode to Psyche</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253406345</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Visual versus physical pleasure, vitality versus cold permanence</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:47:06 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253406345</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Mont Blanc</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253411432</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Imposed meaning, natural versus created beauty </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:47:57 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253411432</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Art Begets Art</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253418150</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The art on the urn inspired Keats to write the poem, the poem is everlasting in some of the same ways that the art of urn is </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:49:04 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253418150</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Imagination v. Potential Reality</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253428930</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>What Keats is able to imagine/daydream about the scenes on the urn is potentially more beautiful than the realities that inspired the art on the urn</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:50:52 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253428930</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The urn as an object </title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253447966</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>a cold, inanimate object representing hot vitality (28-30)</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:53:54 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253447966</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Brightstar</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253479773</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Poem about Keat's lover, yearning</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 14:59:03 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253479773</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Other Connections</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253504998</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>"Eolian Harp," "An Invite to Eternity"</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 15:03:18 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253504998</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Questions</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253516161</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>1.) Separates the urn from it's utilitarian use<br>2.) Keat's suggests a contextless reading (a barebones reading in terms of context) with a focus on aesthetics<br>3.) Keats removes the self and personifies the urn, whereas Wordsworth would perhaps have included more references to the speaker themself<br>4.) Satirical approach, reference to the permanent "happiness" depicted on one side of they urn</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-01 15:05:08 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1253516161</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Lady of Shalott (1832)BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1281795472</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Part I<br>On either side the river lie<br>Long fields of barley and of rye,<br>That clothe the wold and meet the sky;<br>And thro' the field the road runs by<br>       To many-tower'd Camelot;<br>The yellow-leaved waterlily<br>The green-sheathed daffodilly<br>Tremble in the water chilly<br>       Round about Shalott.<br><br>Willows whiten, aspens shiver.<br>The sunbeam showers break and quiver<br>In the stream that runneth ever<br>By the island in the river<br>       Flowing down to Camelot.<br>Four gray walls, and four gray towers<br>Overlook a space of flowers,<br>And the silent isle imbowers<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>Underneath the bearded barley,<br>The reaper, reaping late and early,<br>Hears her ever chanting cheerly,<br>Like an angel, singing clearly,<br>       O'er the stream of Camelot.<br>Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,<br>Beneath the moon, the reaper weary<br>Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,<br>       Lady of Shalott.'<br><br>The little isle is all inrail'd<br>With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd<br>With roses: by the marge unhail'd<br>The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,<br>       Skimming down to Camelot.<br>A pearl garland winds her head:<br>She leaneth on a velvet bed,<br>Full royally apparelled,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>Part II<br>No time hath she to sport and play:<br>A charmed web she weaves alway.<br>A curse is on her, if she stay<br>Her weaving, either night or day,<br>       To look down to Camelot.<br>She knows not what the curse may be;<br>Therefore she weaveth steadily,<br>Therefore no other care hath she,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>She lives with little joy or fear.<br>Over the water, running near,<br>The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.<br>Before her hangs a mirror clear,<br>       Reflecting tower'd Camelot.<br>And as the mazy web she whirls,<br>She sees the surly village churls,<br>And the red cloaks of market girls<br>       Pass onward from Shalott.<br><br>Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,<br>An abbot on an ambling pad,<br>Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,<br>Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,<br>       Goes by to tower'd Camelot:<br>And sometimes thro' the mirror blue<br>The knights come riding two and two:<br>She hath no loyal knight and true,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>But in her web she still delights<br>To weave the mirror's magic sights,<br>For often thro' the silent nights<br>A funeral, with plumes and lights<br>       And music, came from Camelot:<br>Or when the moon was overhead<br>Came two young lovers lately wed;<br>'I am half sick of shadows,' said<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>Part III<br>A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,<br>He rode between the barley-sheaves,<br>The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,<br>And flam'd upon the brazen greaves<br>       Of bold Sir Lancelot.<br>A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd<br>To a lady in his shield,<br>That sparkled on the yellow field,<br>       Beside remote Shalott.<br><br>The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,<br>Like to some branch of stars we see<br>Hung in the golden Galaxy.<br>The bridle bells rang merrily<br>       As he rode down from Camelot:<br>And from his blazon'd baldric slung<br>A mighty silver bugle hung,<br>And as he rode his armour rung,<br>       Beside remote Shalott.<br><br>All in the blue unclouded weather<br>Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,<br>The helmet and the helmet-feather<br>Burn'd like one burning flame together,<br>       As he rode down from Camelot.<br>As often thro' the purple night,<br>Below the starry clusters bright,<br>Some bearded meteor, trailing light,<br>       Moves over green Shalott.<br><br>His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;<br>On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;<br>From underneath his helmet flow'd<br>His coal-black curls as on he rode,<br>       As he rode down from Camelot.<br>From the bank and from the river<br>He flash'd into the crystal mirror,<br>'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'<br>       Sang Sir Lancelot.<br><br>She left the web, she left the loom<br>She made three paces thro' the room<br>She saw the water-flower bloom,<br>She saw the helmet and the plume,<br>       She look'd down to Camelot.<br>Out flew the web and floated wide;<br>The mirror crack'd from side to side;<br>'The curse is come upon me,' cried<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>Part IV<br>In the stormy east-wind straining,<br>The pale yellow woods were waning,<br>The broad stream in his banks complaining,<br>Heavily the low sky raining<br>       Over tower'd Camelot;<br>Outside the isle a shallow boat<br>Beneath a willow lay afloat,<br>Below the carven stern she wrote,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,<br>All raimented in snowy white<br>That loosely flew (her zone in sight<br>Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)<br>       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,<br>Though the squally east-wind keenly<br>Blew, with folded arms serenely<br>By the water stood the queenly<br>       Lady of Shalott.<br><br>With a steady stony glance—<br>Like some bold seer in a trance,<br>Beholding all his own mischance,<br>Mute, with a glassy countenance—<br>       She look'd down to Camelot.<br>It was the closing of the day:<br>She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;<br>The broad stream bore her far away,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>As when to sailors while they roam,<br>By creeks and outfalls far from home,<br>Rising and dropping with the foam,<br>From dying swans wild warblings come,<br>       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot<br>Still as the boathead wound along<br>The willowy hills and fields among,<br>They heard her chanting her deathsong,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,<br>She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,<br>Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,<br>And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,<br>       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:<br>For ere she reach'd upon the tide<br>The first house by the water-side,<br>Singing in her song she died,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>Under tower and balcony,<br>By garden wall and gallery,<br>A pale, pale corpse she floated by,<br>Deadcold, between the houses high,<br>       Dead into tower'd Camelot.<br>Knight and burgher, lord and dame,<br>To the planked wharfage came:<br>Below the stern they read her name,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.<br><br>They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,<br>Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.<br>There lay a parchment on her breast,<br>That puzzled more than all the rest,<br>       The wellfed wits at Camelot.<br>'The web was woven curiously,<br>The charm is broken utterly,<br>Draw near and fear not,—this is I,<br>       The Lady of Shalott.'</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 13:06:55 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1281795472</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Major themes</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282313952</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>- Purity of women<br>- Tower represents the isolation of women to keep them pure<br>- Passion is going to lead her to her death</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:37:48 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282313952</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Female Purity</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282322898</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Tennyson was commenting on how a woman's worth is determined by their purity. The lilies that surround her are a symbol for purity, and the pearls the poem mentions is a symbol of femininity and perfection.<br>Women are meant to be abstinent during this time, and if they are not they are seen as having lesser worth, but there are a lot of sexual references alluding to her desire to have a passionate romance with Lancelot. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:39:10 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282322898</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Damon the Mower</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282346860</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The pastoral aspects of this poem, the pastoral world is beneath her (literally lol, she's in a tower) </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:42:51 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282346860</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Why looking at life through a mirror?</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282356197</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Why does the Lady not just look out a window, why does she see it all through a mirror? <br>It's a way to look at natural vs unnatural. She isn't actually looking at lives, and what is happening could be distorted. She only sees weddings and funerals, and is looking at the extreme highs and lows of life. <br>It perhaps alludes to Plato's cave, she isn't seeing what is really happening, just what she imagines from what is reflected in the mirror. And once she actually goes out to see the world, she can't go back to living life the way she was</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:44:19 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282356197</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Escaping expectations </title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282387971</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>She is pursuing sexual freedom and trying to escape this life that has been forced upon her. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:49:20 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282387971</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Ophelia</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282392466</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Both committed suicide by drowning themselves, but in a deeper sense it was them escaping from a life where other people controlled them</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:50:01 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282392466</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Lack of voice</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282401746</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Lady of Shalott doesn't have a voice in the poem, until she writes this message in the last stanza, where she finally takes control over her life (or lack thereof) </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:51:25 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282401746</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Alternative ending</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282412759</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Lancelot commenting on her appearance is a bit of a dramatic irony for the reader where he sees her for the first time and thinks "I would have liked to have known her" <br>Alternative ending also takes away her voice that we finally hear.<br>Also why is she attractive? is it because she was pure, or because she was dead? </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:53:11 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282412759</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Poe</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282435069</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Says something about women who have suffered being more attractive/beautiful </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:56:37 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282435069</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Seven Deadly Sins </title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282437599</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Character of Elaine is based off of Lady of Shalott, similar themes of purity and towers. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:57:01 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282437599</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Alternative ending</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282451205</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>"Four gray walls" stanza is different, emphasizes that no one sees her,</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:59:13 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282451205</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;the reaper, reaping late and early / Hears her chanting cheerly&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282456116</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Only the reapers harvesting barley hear her and kind of know her, but this also likely alludes to the fact that no one really sees her until she dies. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 14:59:58 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282456116</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Purity</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282479077</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>She didn't rock the boat, and she remains pure and intact. Even though she's dead, she did not act on anything and in death she remains a monument of purity</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:03:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282479077</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Arachnid </title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282485050</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>She is very skilled at weaving, and Athena gets upset at Arachnid's irreverence and turns her into a spider. Lady of Shalott has to weave tapestries, and the poem mentions her "web"</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:04:41 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282485050</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Ode to a Grecian Urn</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282506389</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Is this permanence worth it if you can't interact and actually experience passion and life</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:08:02 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282506389</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Songs for a new world &quot;Just one step&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282510218</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>A woman threatening to throw herself out the window to get her husband's attention, idea of someone doing something dramatic to escape the monotony of life</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:08:38 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282510218</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: magic mirrors</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282517948</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Snow White and other fairy tales, magic mirrors kind of represent separation from the rest of the world</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:09:46 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282517948</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282524367</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lady_of_Shalott#/media/File:John_Atkinson_Grimshaw_-_%22The_Lady_of_Shalott%22_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:10:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282524367</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Images</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282538004</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The ones where she's dead in her boat has this idea of continued purity, can't ever become unpure if you're dead!</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:12:54 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282538004</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Her suicide</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282557013</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Is there a trope that suicide is an empowering thing for females to do? There needs to be other ways to give females agency in tough situations.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:15:58 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282557013</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282566812</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>It might have been intended to show her as having agency, but it's still crappy. In the story it's meant to show her taking control in a way</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:17:31 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282566812</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282586607</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>I think the whole suicide as agency thing also ties into the whole “dress as a man to escape” trope, because there’s this whole idea of death and masculinity are the only ways women can gain power and agency</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-08 15:20:34 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1282586607</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister - Robert Browning</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1298140469</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div> Gr-r-r--there go, my heart's abhorrence!<br>   Water your damned flower-pots, do!<br>If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,<br>   God's blood, would not mine kill you!<br>What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?<br>   Oh, that rose has prior claims--<br>Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?<br>   Hell dry you up with its flames!<br><br>At the meal we sit together;<br>   Salve tibi! I must hear<br>Wise talk of the kind of weather,<br>   Sort of season, time of year:<br>Not a plenteous cork crop: scarcely<br>   Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt;<br>What's the Latin name for "parsley"?<br>What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"?<br><br>Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,<br>   Laid with care on our own shelf!<br>With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,<br>   And a goblet for ourself,<br>Rinsed like something sacrificial<br>   Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps--<br>Marked with L. for our initial!<br>   (He-he! There his lily snaps!)<br><br>Saint, forsooth! While Brown Dolores<br>   Squats outside the Convent bank<br>With Sanchicha, telling stories,<br>   Steeping tresses in the tank,<br>Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,<br>   --Can't I see his dead eye glow,<br>Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's?<br>   (That is, if he'd let it show!)<br><br>When he finishes refection,<br>   Knife and fork he never lays<br>Cross-wise, to my recollection,<br>   As do I, in Jesu's praise.<br>I the Trinity illustrate,<br>   Drinking watered orange pulp--<br>In three sips the Arian frustrate;<br>   While he drains his at one gulp!<br><br>Oh, those melons! if he's able<br>   We're to have a feast; so nice!<br>One goes to the Abbot's table,<br>   All of us get each a slice.<br>How go on your flowers? None double?<br>   Not one fruit-sort can you spy?<br>Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble,<br>   Keep them close-nipped on the sly!<br><br>There's a great text in Galatians,<br>   Once you trip on it, entails<br>Twenty-nine district damnations,<br>   One sure, if another fails;<br>If I trip him just a-dying,<br>   Sure of heaven as sure can be,<br>Spin him round and send him flying<br>   Off to hell, a Manichee?<br><br>Or, my scrofulous French novel<br>   On grey paper with blunt type!<br>Simply glance at it, you grovel<br>   Hand and foot in Belial's gripe;<br>If I double down its pages<br>   At the woeful sixteenth print,<br>When he gathers his greengages,<br>   Ope a sieve and slip it in't?<br><br>Or, there's Satan!--one might venture<br>   Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave<br>Such a flaw in the indenture<br>   As he'd miss till, past retrieve,<br>Blasted lay that rose-acacia<br>   We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine...<br>'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratia<br>   Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r--you swine!<br><br></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-11 14:18:56 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1298140469</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Themes</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310643633</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>- Centers around a monk with a sense of moral superiority - hates his fellow monk for no real reason<br>- A big focus on both moral and religious hypocrisy throughout</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 13:38:24 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310643633</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310657994</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>- Ego Dominus by Yeats - focuses on ego<br>- The Monk - a story about a monk who makes a deal with the devil<br>- Songs of Experience - religious hypocrisy, people believing they can still be godly after committing a horrible sin<br>Beowulf - also has a main character with a massive ego<br>Jesus's sermon on the mount - mentions how hatred is just as bad as murder<br>- The Canterbury Tales - a collection of morality tales which used a lot of stereotypes - many of the characters within the story tell a story with a moral that they themselves could probably benefit from learning<br>- The Testaments - Margaret Atwood - also focuses on frivolous fixation on certain parts of the Bible above others</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 13:41:01 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310657994</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>French Novel</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310669697</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>What could be in a French novel that would make someone immediately go to hell? Either it could simply be that scandelous, or it could have to do with French connections with a demonic Bible</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 13:43:09 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310669697</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Twenty-Nine damnations</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310693673</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>This isn't actually present in the Bible -- the monk in question completely misinterpretted this section for his own benefit</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 13:47:25 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310693673</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Morality </title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310705094</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Who is the real immoral one here? Brother Lawrence, or our narrator?  The narrator, in his hatred, may be the real sinner here, as he messes with Lawrence's plants and hates him immensely -- something which is considered a sin in the Bible. Despite the narrator's hatred of him, Lawrence never appears to do anything back to him, implying that he might be a good person after all.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 13:49:23 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310705094</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Hatred</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310719891</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Devotion to God can supposely erase a person's bad actions,  especially in Catholicism if they go through reconciliation. However, if someone isn't truly repentant for their sins, they cannot be forgiven -- and the narrator, in his immense hatred, may be prevented from going to heaven for his hatred. We also never really find out why he hates his fellow monk -- adding an element of frivolity to the poem.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 13:52:00 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310719891</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310743120</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>While no denomination was specifically named in this poem, we are broadly assuming that it is Catholicism due to the location and time period, as well as due to the fact that they are monks. Something interesting in Catholicism is that a thought itself can be considered a sin -- the narrator's hatred of Brother Lawrence itself can damn him to hell based on Catholic dogma.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 13:56:11 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310743120</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Judgement</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310777114</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>One main teaching of the Catholic Church is that human beings can't judge each other and only God can judge, and yet here this monk judges another brother in his order, going against this teaching - reflects many situations where people who are very religious are not especially moral</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:02:12 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310777114</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Protestantism vs. Catholicms</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310788944</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>A lot of Protestant tradition opposes Catholic ideals, and England was very very Protestant -- perhaps making fun of a Catholic monk would be seen as humorous by a British audience. This could also be seen as a charicature of Spanish people.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:04:19 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310788944</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Considered Spicy</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310821412</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Author actually got in trouble for blasphemy for writing this in England, even though it's about a Spanish Catholic monk!</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:10:03 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310821412</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Faustian Bargain</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310838889</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Even threatening to make a deal with the devil to damn Brother Lawrence to hell could be enought to damn the narrator. Even if he finds a way to trick Satan out of his soul, making false bargains is considered to be a sin as well -- probably would damn him.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:13:05 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310838889</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Structure</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310849961</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>- Use of parenthetical asides, such as expressing joy when his lily snaps, breaks train of thought as he brings up various jabs to validate his hatred <br>- These asides also develop a strong voice for this speaker, and as a soliloquy which is meant to be spoken by an actor these asides allow a connection to be made to the audience -- something which soliloquys are intended to do</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:15:01 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310849961</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Goblet</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310859692</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The prescence of a Goblet marked with an "L" is considered something not very much like a monk -- monks generally focus on communalism, and so having a personal item such as a goblet or a "fire-new spoon" would be considered selfish</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:16:40 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310859692</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Gardening</title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310883372</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Lawrence's skill with plants could reflect a nurturing, god-like personality -- gardening is also considered lower labor by some people, and thus this mockery by the narrator could establish another level of superiority</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:20:48 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310883372</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Attendance </title>
         <author></author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310891930</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Leader: Marc<br>Reader: Megan<br>Notetaker: Megan<br>Absences: None</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-15 14:22:16 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1310891930</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Windhover BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1330647509</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>To Christ our Lord<br><br>I caught this morning morning's minion, king-<br>    dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding<br>    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding<br>High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing<br>In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,<br>    As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding<br>    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding<br>Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!<br><br>Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here<br>    Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion<br>Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!<br>     <br>   No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion<br>Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,<br>    Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-19 16:54:19 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1330647509</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Pied Beauty BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1336018650</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Glory be to God for dappled things –<br>   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;<br>      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;<br>Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;<br>   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;<br>      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.<br><br>All things counter, original, spare, strange;<br>   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)<br>      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;<br>He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:<br>                                Praise him.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 03:32:24 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1336018650</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Attendance</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337875381</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Leader: David <br>Notetaker: Marc<br>Reader: James<br>Presenter: Kytana (took notes, since there's no class Wed and Marc is abs)<br>No other absences<br><br></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 13:40:45 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337875381</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Mont Blanc</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337888623</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Tiny bird, half imagination, half true-greatness</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 13:42:55 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337888623</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Commentary on the Day to Day</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337892223</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>You can find something sublime in regular life, but it's also normal</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 13:43:32 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337892223</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Sprung Rhythm </title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337929632</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Unique poetic rhythm, almost a sonnet (Petrarchan)</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 13:49:44 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337929632</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Windhover</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337948274</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>"Windhover" = Falcon, Jesus as a falcon swooping down when we die to take us to Heaven</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="https://padlet-uploads.storage.googleapis.com/1050934507/4fcb36243cc9e68e6af6aac547918744/BA9C0C30_376E_48F3_BB9F_FEAC09768317.jpeg" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 13:52:48 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337948274</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>In Cold Blood, Truman Capote</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337977902</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Jesus Parrot</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 13:57:38 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337977902</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Crow</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337997202</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Jesus imagery, birds</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 14:00:49 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1337997202</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Rhythm</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338016086</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Rhythm mimics the wind that the bird would be bobbing on</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 14:04:03 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338016086</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Language</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338020974</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>no normal/correct language can accurately describe Jesus, language is confusing so is Jesus</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 14:04:53 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338020974</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Poetry is the best words in the best order&quot;</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338040618</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 14:08:13 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338040618</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Sillion&quot;</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338048993</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>nice dirt turned up by a plow</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 14:09:39 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338048993</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Sillion portion</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338068925</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>ploughing as a metaphor for spiritual work, maybe Jesus's spear wound, gold-vermillion: the value of the blood</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-22 14:12:48 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1338068925</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Araby by James Joyce</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1358667820</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the&nbsp;<br>Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at&nbsp;<br>the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the&nbsp;<br>street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown&nbsp;<br>imperturbable faces.&nbsp;<br>The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty&nbsp;<br>from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the&nbsp;<br>kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered&nbsp;<br>books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The&nbsp;<br>Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its&nbsp;<br>leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and&nbsp;<br>a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump.&nbsp;<br>He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions&nbsp;<br>and the furniture of his house to his sister.&nbsp;<br>When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners.&nbsp;<br>When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was&nbsp;<br>the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble&nbsp;<br>lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed&nbsp;<br>in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes&nbsp;<br>behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the&nbsp;<br>back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark&nbsp;<br>odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from&nbsp;<br>the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had&nbsp;<br>filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we&nbsp;<br>had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her&nbsp;<br>brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We&nbsp;<br>waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow&nbsp;<br>and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined&nbsp;<br>by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed,&nbsp;<br>and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and&nbsp;<br>the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.&nbsp;<br>Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was&nbsp;<br>pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out&nbsp;<br>on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I&nbsp;<br>kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our&nbsp;<br>ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after&nbsp;<br>morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was&nbsp;<br>like a summons to all my foolish blood. 2<br>Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday&nbsp;<br>evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We&nbsp;<br>walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid&nbsp;<br>the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels&nbsp;<br>of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about&nbsp;<br>O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises&nbsp;<br>converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely&nbsp;<br>through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and&nbsp;<br>praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not&nbsp;<br>tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I&nbsp;<br>thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I&nbsp;<br>spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp&nbsp;<br>and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.&nbsp;<br>One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a&nbsp;<br>dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes&nbsp;<br>I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the&nbsp;<br>sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful&nbsp;<br>that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling&nbsp;<br>that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they&nbsp;<br>trembled, murmuring: `O love! O love!' many times.&nbsp;<br>At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that&nbsp;<br>I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I&nbsp;<br>answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go.&nbsp;<br>`And why can't you?' I asked.&nbsp;<br>While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go,&nbsp;<br>she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two&nbsp;<br>other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the&nbsp;<br>spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught&nbsp;<br>the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand&nbsp;<br>upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a&nbsp;<br>petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.&nbsp;<br>`It's well for you,' she said.&nbsp;<br>`If I go,' I said, `I will bring you something.'&nbsp;<br>What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening!&nbsp;<br>I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school.&nbsp;<br>At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the&nbsp;<br>page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the&nbsp;<br>silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for&nbsp;<br>leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not 3<br>some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face&nbsp;<br>pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call&nbsp;<br>my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life&nbsp;<br>which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly&nbsp;<br>monotonous child's play.&nbsp;<br>On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the&nbsp;<br>evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me&nbsp;<br>curtly:&nbsp;<br>`Yes, boy, I know.'&nbsp;<br>As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I felt the&nbsp;<br>house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw&nbsp;<br>and already my heart misgave me.&nbsp;<br>When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat&nbsp;<br>staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the&nbsp;<br>room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold,&nbsp;<br>empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front&nbsp;<br>window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me&nbsp;<br>weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at&nbsp;<br>the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but&nbsp;<br>the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the&nbsp;<br>curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.&nbsp;<br>When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old,&nbsp;<br>garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious&nbsp;<br>purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an&nbsp;<br>hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she&nbsp;<br>couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late,&nbsp;<br>as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the&nbsp;<br>room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:&nbsp;<br>`I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.'&nbsp;<br>At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to&nbsp;<br>himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I&nbsp;<br>could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give&nbsp;<br>me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.&nbsp;<br>`The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,' he said.&nbsp;<br>I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:&nbsp;<br>`Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is.' 4<br>My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying:&nbsp;<br>`All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' He asked me where I was going and, when&nbsp;<br>I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When&nbsp;<br>I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.&nbsp;<br>I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station.&nbsp;<br>The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the&nbsp;<br>purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After&nbsp;<br>an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among&nbsp;<br>ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people&nbsp;<br>pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a&nbsp;<br>special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the&nbsp;<br>train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw&nbsp;<br>by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large&nbsp;<br>building which displayed the magical name.&nbsp;<br>I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I&nbsp;<br>passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found&nbsp;<br>myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed&nbsp;<br>and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which&nbsp;<br>pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few&nbsp;<br>people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which&nbsp;<br>the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money&nbsp;<br>on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.&nbsp;<br>Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and&nbsp;<br>examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was&nbsp;<br>talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and&nbsp;<br>listened vaguely to their conversation.&nbsp;<br>`O, I never said such a thing!'&nbsp;<br>`O, but you did!'&nbsp;<br>`O, but I didn't!'&nbsp;<br>`Didn't she say that?'&nbsp;<br>`Yes. I heard her.'&nbsp;<br>`O, there's a... fib!'&nbsp;<br>Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The&nbsp;<br>tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of&nbsp;<br>duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the&nbsp;<br>dark entrance to the stall and murmured: 5<br>`No, thank you.'&nbsp;<br>The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young&nbsp;<br>men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me&nbsp;<br>over her shoulder.&nbsp;<br>I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her&nbsp;<br>wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the&nbsp;<br>bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a&nbsp;<br>voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall&nbsp;<br>was now completely dark.&nbsp;<br>Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and&nbsp;<br>my eyes burned with anguish and anger.&nbsp;</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-26 19:22:00 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1358667820</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Eveline (1914) </title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1362112169</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned&nbsp;<br>against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was&nbsp;<br>tired.<br>Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard&nbsp;<br>his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder&nbsp;<br>path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to&nbsp;<br>play every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field&nbsp;<br>and built houses in it—not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining&nbsp;<br>roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field—the Devines, the&nbsp;<br>Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however,&nbsp;<br>never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field&nbsp;<br>with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw&nbsp;<br>her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so&nbsp;<br>bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers&nbsp;<br>and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the&nbsp;<br>Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like&nbsp;<br>the others, to leave her home.<br>Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had&nbsp;<br>dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from.&nbsp;<br>Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed 2<br>of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the&nbsp;<br>priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the&nbsp;<br>coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a&nbsp;<br>school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used&nbsp;<br>to pass it with a casual word:<br>“He is in Melbourne now.”<br>She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh&nbsp;<br>each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom&nbsp;<br>she had known all her life about her. O course she had to work hard, both in the house and at&nbsp;<br>business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run&nbsp;<br>away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by&nbsp;<br>advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially&nbsp;<br>whenever there were people listening.<br>“Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?”<br>“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.”<br>She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.<br>But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then&nbsp;<br>she would be married—she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not&nbsp;<br>be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes&nbsp;<br>felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the&nbsp;<br>palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for&nbsp;<br>Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say 3<br>what he would do to her only for her dead mother's sake. And now she had nobody to protect&nbsp;<br>her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly&nbsp;<br>always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on&nbsp;<br>Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages—<br>seven shillings—and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any&nbsp;<br>money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he&nbsp;<br>wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more,&nbsp;<br>for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and&nbsp;<br>ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly&nbsp;<br>as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she&nbsp;<br>elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions.&nbsp;<br>She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had&nbsp;<br>been left to hr charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard&nbsp;<br>work—a hard life—but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly&nbsp;<br>undesirable life.<br>She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, openhearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in&nbsp;<br>Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time&nbsp;<br>she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It&nbsp;<br>seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his&nbsp;<br>head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each&nbsp;<br>other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to 4<br>see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre&nbsp;<br>with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were&nbsp;<br>courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly&nbsp;<br>confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for&nbsp;<br>her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He&nbsp;<br>had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to&nbsp;<br>Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different&nbsp;<br>services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible&nbsp;<br>Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the&nbsp;<br>old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had&nbsp;<br>forbidden her to have anything to say to him.<br>“I know these sailor chaps,” he said.<br>One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover&nbsp;<br>secretly.<br>The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew&nbsp;<br>indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but&nbsp;<br>she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her.&nbsp;<br>Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he&nbsp;<br>had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their&nbsp;<br>mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her&nbsp;<br>father putting on her mother’s bonnet to make the children laugh.5<br>Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head&nbsp;<br>against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she&nbsp;<br>could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that it should come that very&nbsp;<br>night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as&nbsp;<br>long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the&nbsp;<br>close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy.&nbsp;<br>The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her&nbsp;<br>father strutting back into the sickroom saying:<br>“Damned Italians! coming over here!”<br>As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of&nbsp;<br>her being—that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she&nbsp;<br>heard again her mother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:<br>“Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!”<br>She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would&nbsp;<br>save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she&nbsp;<br>be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his&nbsp;<br>arms. He would save her.<br>She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her&nbsp;<br>hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and&nbsp;<br>over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of&nbsp;<br>the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, 6<br>with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of&nbsp;<br>a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat&nbsp;<br>blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea&nbsp;<br>with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still&nbsp;<br>draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she&nbsp;<br>kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.<br>A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:<br>“Come!”<br>All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he&nbsp;<br>would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.<br>“Come!”<br>No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas&nbsp;<br>she sent a cry of anguish.<br>“Eveline! Evvy!”<br>He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on&nbsp;<br>but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her&nbsp;<br>eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-28 22:14:22 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1362112169</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>House on Mango Street</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364066550</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Both told in a series of short stories, and have a single narrator. Specific culture and environment accompanied by self development.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:42:36 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364066550</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Garden of Eden</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364071630</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Mankind's fall from innocence. The narrator loses childhood wonder in discovering the world isn't this great fantasy he thought it was.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:43:46 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364071630</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Wakefield- Short Story</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364076568</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Both protagonists ghost around their house and don't fully live in it.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:44:53 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364076568</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Angela&#39;s Ashes</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364079859</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Super sad and depressing :) Themes that center around loss of hope. About Irish American immigrants, and told from the perspective of a child.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:45:40 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364079859</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Bluest Eye- Toni Morrison</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364087166</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Loss of innocence of a child. Pecola "dies" in response similarly to how the narrator feels almost dead inside.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:47:18 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364087166</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Diction</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364093233</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Word choice varies between the two short stories. Transition from child-like words that create a vivid fantasy to words with negative connotations.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:48:40 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364093233</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Color Symbolism in addition to descriptive language</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364096182</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Calls blood foolish. Personification accompanied by color symbolism embodies child-like wonder.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:49:20 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364096182</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Friend&#39;s Sister</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364105379</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The sister contrasts the&nbsp; bad smells of the town.&nbsp; An escape. Her presence accompanies him in place he doesn't want to be. Brown clothing- loneliness, isolation, and sadness: the narrator's isolation from her, and her own isolation from the world outside religion.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:51:26 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364105379</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Religious Obligations and Feminism</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364117927</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The sister is forced into these religious obligations and forced to fit this awful mold of the chaste and holy woman.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:54:19 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364117927</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Earth- Brown</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364122287</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The sister (wearing brown) is turned into mud. The narrator is enraged by the sight of dirt turning into mud during a rainstorm. Thinks love will save her from the harsh rain of Ireland.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:55:20 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364122287</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Death of the Priest</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364132501</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Echoes death of innocence, or the death of the church due to harsh control. Keeps returning to the room where the priest died because he's confused why he was left in isolation with his aunt and uncle. Jealous of the priest's escape in death.&nbsp;<br>Dead priest's room- seemingly peaceful space.<br>Bazaar to Church:<br>Two men count coins in the bazaar- Jesus flipping shit at church due to corrupt actions of using it for greed.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 13:57:35 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364132501</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Dead- short story by Joyce</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364154860</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Love: Awkward and controlling sense of love. Corrupt view towards love seen in these three stories.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:02:33 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364154860</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Financier</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364163038</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Truer love</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:04:20 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364163038</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Proverbs 31</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364165874</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Jewish woman who is always working. Married life abroad</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:04:58 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364165874</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Brooklyn- Movie</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364168369</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Woman must choose between a man and Ireland: connection to Eveline and her challenges.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:05:33 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364168369</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Araby</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364171292</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Focus on routine and reliance on it which prevents it from changing things.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:06:12 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364171292</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Lady of Shalott</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364174663</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Paralysis and not being able to leave the space they're in.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:06:54 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364174663</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Passivity </title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364178953</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Inability to make decision- reinforces misogynist views towards women</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:07:51 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364178953</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Epiphany</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364183426</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Arrival at station- realizes she has no chance of leaving at the station</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:08:53 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364183426</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Forced Epiphany</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364190366</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>She forces herself to have a better life</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:10:21 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364190366</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Learned Helplessness</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364196146</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>She thinks she might be able to have a new life, but then she is manipulated by her history of abuse- things one act of kindness erases all her grief.<br>Can't help herself</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:11:39 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364196146</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Stockholm Syndrome-Esque</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364202789</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Falls in love with her abusers.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:13:12 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364202789</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Age of Innocence- Wharton</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364211503</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>About a family of women with the goal to marry men who will live abroad: Abuse and cheating result of this attempt to get abroad.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:15:07 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364211503</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Lady of Shalott cont. </title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364222673</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Both women are passive and portrayed to be relying on a man and not themselves.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:17:29 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364222673</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Yeats</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364228336</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Araby, Evelin, and Yeats fit well together. However, Dubliners lacks that true female perspective.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:18:48 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364228336</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Dust</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364232918</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Symbol of paralysis (grime and dirt is common in Araby as well).</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-29 14:19:50 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1364232918</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Blue and Green by WOOLF</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1372428735</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>GREEN<br>THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets–their harsh cries–sharp blades of palm trees–green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the desert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantlepiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. It's night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green's out.<br>BLUE<br>The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral's different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-31 16:22:47 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1372428735</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Mark on the Wall by WOOLF</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1372431221</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>PERHAPS IT WAS the middle of January in the present year that I first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time. I looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.<br><br>How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it.... If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a picture, it must have been for a miniature–the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. A fraud of course, for the people who had this house before us would have chosen pictures in that way–an old picture for an old room. That is the sort of people they were–very interesting people, and I think of them so often, in such queer places, because one will never see them again, never know what happened next. They wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train.<br><br>But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was made by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that. I might get up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to say for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life; The inaccuracy of thought! The ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our possessions we have–what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization–let me just count over a few of the things lost in one lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious of losses–what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble–three pale blue canisters of book-binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle board, the hand organ–all gone, and jewels, too. Opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour–landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying back like the tail of a race-horse. Yes, that seems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard....<br><br>But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and red light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at the roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying which are trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected by thick stalks, and rather higher up perhaps, rose-shaped blots of an indistinct colour–dim pinks and blues–which will, as time goes on, become more definite, become–I don't know what....<br><br>And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be caused by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, left over from the summer, and I, not being a very vigilant housekeeper–look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust which, so they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments of pots utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe.<br><br>The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane.... I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea that passes.... Shakespeare.... Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat himself solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so–A shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people, looking in through the open door,–for this scene is supposed to take place on a summer's evening–But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It doesn't interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear their own praises. They are not thoughts directly praising oneself; that is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:<br><br>"And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how I'd seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old house in Kingsway. The seed, I said, must have been sown in the reign of Charles the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First?" I asked–(but I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with purple tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm dressing up the figure of myself in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily, not openly adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch myself out, and stretch my hand at once for a book in self-protection. Indeed, it is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It is a matter of great importance. Suppose the looking glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is seen by other people–what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses and underground railways we are looking into the mirror; that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in future will realize more and more the importance of these reflections, for of course there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number; those are the depths they will explore, those the phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the Greeks did and Shakespeare perhaps–but these generalizations are very worthless. The military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles, cabinet ministers–a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. Generalizations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes, and habits–like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them, such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real tablecloths. How shocking, and yet how wonderful it was to discover that these real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks, country houses, and tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the damnation which visited the disbeliever in them was only a sense of illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of those things I wonder, those real standard things? Men perhaps, should you be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which sets the standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has become, I suppose, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, which soon, one may hope, will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and the Landseer prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of illegitimate freedom–if freedom exists....<br><br>In certain lights that mark on the wall seems actually to project from the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it seems to cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and descend a small tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the South Downs which are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people, and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the turf.... There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug up those bones and given them a name.... What sort of a man is an antiquary, I wonder? Retired Colonels for the most part, I daresay, leading parties of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of earth and stone, and getting into correspondence with the neighbouring clergy, which, being opened at breakfast time, gives them a feeling of importance, and the comparison of arrow-heads necessitates cross-country journeys to the county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to their elderly wives, who wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study, and have every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual suspension, while the Colonel himself feels agreeably philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being opposed, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and his last conscious thoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that arrowhead there, which is now in the case at the local museum, together with the foot of a Chinese murderess, a handful of Elizabethan nails, a great many Tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and the wine-glass that Nelson drank out of–proving I really don't know what.<br><br>No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get up at this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really–what shall we say?–the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a white-walled fire-lit room, what should I gain?–Knowledge? Matter for further speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing up. And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars? And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for beauty and health of mind increases.... Yes, one could imagine a very pleasant world. A quiet, spacious world, with the flowers so red and blue in the open fields. A world without professors or specialists or house-keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world which one could slice with one's thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing the stems of the water-lilies, hanging suspended over nests of white sea eggs.... How peaceful it is down here, rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters, with their sudden gleams of light, and their reflections–if it were not for Whitaker's Almanack–if it were not for the Table of Precedency!<br><br>I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really is–a nail, a rose-leaf, a crack in the wood?<br><br>Here is nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. This train of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy, even some collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a finger against Whitaker's Table of Precedency? The Archbishop of Canterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows somebody, such is the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing is to know who follows whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Nature counsels, comfort you, instead of enraging you; and if you can't be comforted, if you must shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on the wall.<br><br>I understand Nature's game–her prompting to take action as a way of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, I suppose, comes our slight contempt for men of action–men, we assume, who don't think. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.<br><br>Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel that I have grasped a plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the shadows of shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sure of.... Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a tree; and trees grow, and we don't know how they grow. For years and years they grow, without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in forests, and by the side of rivers–all things one likes to think about. The cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives one expects to see its feathers all green when it comes up again. I like to think of the fish balanced against the stream like flags blown out; and of water-beetles slowly raising domes of mud upon the bed of the river. I like to think of the tree itself: first the close dry sensation of being wood; then the grinding of the storm; then the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of it, too, on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold the feet of insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progresses up the creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin green awning of the leaves, and look straight in front of them with diamond-cut red eyes.... One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. Even so, life isn't done with; there are a million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all over the world, in bedrooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms, where men and women sit after tea, smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I should like to take each one separately–but something is getting in the way.... Where was I? What has it all been about? A tree? A river? The Downs? Whitaker's Almanack? The fields of asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's moving, falling, slipping, vanishing.... There is a vast upheaval of matter. Someone is standing over me and saying–<br><br>"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."<br><br>"Yes?"<br><br>"Though it's no good buying newspapers.... Nothing ever happens. Curse this war; God damn this war!... All the same, I don't see why we should have a snail on our wall."<br><br>Ah, the mark on the wall! It was a snail.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-03-31 16:23:26 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1372431221</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections</title>
         <author>sak220</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383254193</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Monet - "Water Lillies"<br>Stein - "If I Told Him, A&nbsp; Completed..." (Poem in the style of cubism)<br>Dali paintings<br>Gathering Blue<br>Mont Blanc - connection to sublime<br>I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud<br>Aurora Borealis</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-05 14:19:14 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383254193</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>sak220</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383265356</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>told in the form of a written painting, post impressionist, can't tell what it is at first</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-05 14:21:42 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383265356</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Blue</title>
         <author>sak220</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383267908</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>someone catching a fish<br>more manmade focus</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-05 14:22:18 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383267908</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>sak220</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383269695</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>stream of consciousness</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-05 14:22:44 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383269695</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Green</title>
         <author>sak220</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383271883</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>sublime<br>Mirage(?), deceptive image<br>dense<br>obscure<br>dangerous undertone<br>very natural/nature focused<br><br></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-05 14:23:10 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383271883</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>How they work together</title>
         <author>sak220</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383275787</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>could appear as a time lapse, both describe similar scenes at different times/ different moods?</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-05 14:24:06 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1383275787</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>In Memory of W. B. Yeats - W. H. Auden - 1907-1973</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1405250114</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>I<br><br>He disappeared in the dead of winter:<br>The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,<br>And snow disfigured the public statues;<br>The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.<br>What instruments we have agree<br>The day of his death was a dark cold day.<br><br>Far from his illness<br>The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,<br>The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;<br>By mourning tongues<br>The death of the poet was kept from his poems.<br><br>But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,<br>An afternoon of nurses and rumours;<br>The provinces of his body revolted,<br>The squares of his mind were empty,<br>Silence invaded the suburbs,<br>The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.<br><br>Now he is scattered among a hundred cities<br>And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,<br>To find his happiness in another kind of wood<br>And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.<br>The words of a dead man<br>Are modified in the guts of the living.<br><br>But in the importance and noise of to-morrow<br>When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the bourse,<br>And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed<br>And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom<br>A few thousand will think of this day<br>As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.<br><br>What instruments we have agree<br>The day of his death was a dark cold day.<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>II<br><br>You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:<br>The parish of rich women, physical decay,<br>Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.<br>Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,<br>For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives<br>In the valley of its making where executives<br>Would never want to tamper, flows on south<br>From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,<br>Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,<br>A way of happening, a mouth.<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>III<br><br>Earth, receive an honoured guest:<br>William Yeats is laid to rest.<br>Let the Irish vessel lie<br>Emptied of its poetry.<br><br>In the nightmare of the dark<br>All the dogs of Europe bark,<br>And the living nations wait,<br>Each sequestered in its hate;<br><br>Intellectual disgrace<br>Stares from every human face,<br>And the seas of pity lie<br>Locked and frozen in each eye.<br><br>Follow, poet, follow right<br>To the bottom of the night,<br>With your unconstraining voice<br>Still persuade us to rejoice;<br><br>With the farming of a verse<br>Make a vineyard of the curse,<br>Sing of human unsuccess<br>In a rapture of distress;<br><br>In the deserts of the heart<br>Let the healing fountain start,<br>In the prison of his days<br>Teach the free man how to praise.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 00:47:29 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1405250114</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Form</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407243286</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Each third has a different form.<br> -only the third has a rhyme scheme<br>&nbsp;</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:35:18 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407243286</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Lack of sypmapthy</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407246525</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Elegies are used as parodies.&nbsp;<br>States facts about weather, showing lack of him being sentimental.<br>To contrast: It can be seen that the whole world is reacting to the death of Yeats (However, winter came before his death)<br><br></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:35:56 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407246525</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The winter storm</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407261852</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Yeats becomes the winter storm.<br>The death of the author: the only place Yeats is anymore is in the minds of his readers, and he no longer has any control over his poetry. His poems are interpreted separately from himself.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:38:31 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407261852</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Writer&#39;s block</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407278011</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Being cut off from the ability to write. As the author ages, they lose their capabilities.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:41:25 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407278011</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Unfamiliar affections&quot;</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407285344</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>He is being read by readers who had no idea who he was before he died.&nbsp;<br>People filter his poems using their own experience </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:42:45 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407285344</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>How to read like a professor</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407290850</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Meaning of literature is half made by the author half by the reader.<br>Extra: Mont Blanc and how nature is half natural world and half imagination.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:43:49 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407290850</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Ode to a Grecian Urn</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407294623</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Beauty is not truth or objective since things change and are modified constantly.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:44:34 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407294623</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Circus Animals&#39; Desertion- Yeats</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407308502</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>In three parts:<br>&nbsp;-First half of poem is about writers block<br>&nbsp;-Goes into the actual writing the poem Death bed</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:46:28 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407308502</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>No shock</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407320379</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>When Yeats died, only a few thousand people will remember Yeats in a sentimental way.<br>There is not a great amount of impact (However, a few thousand is still a large number of people).<br>Like the death of a celebrity. Sympathy over empathy.<br>The death of a celebrity is not overly sentimental.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:48:40 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407320379</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Yeats&#39; Grave- The Cranberries</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407345573</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Song that references visiting the poet's grave.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:53:16 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407345573</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Observations of humanity</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407353452</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Auden doesn't condemn the lack of empathy. He just views it.&nbsp;<br> -We shouldn't have this great emotional response to the death of someone famous just because they were famous</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:54:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407353452</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Poetry lives on</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407365273</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>II discusses what will happen with how his gift of poetry will survive.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:56:49 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407365273</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Transplant poet</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407373807</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Discusses the mutability of the style of poets who are transplanted from one nation to another. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:58:20 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407373807</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Grunge</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407378128</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Poetry survives in a very informal way by word of mouth.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 13:59:07 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407378128</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Contrast to part II</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407384176</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Poetry DOES do things: people are taught to rejoice, be healed, etc.&nbsp;</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 14:00:13 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407384176</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Poetry and the environment</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407392304</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The environment is exclusive to itself.<br>Poetry influences the people (not in a literal way: doesn't change politics, who is starving, etc.)<br>Changes things in a metaphorical way<br> -Poetry may not do anything literally, but it survives</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 14:01:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407392304</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Rhyme scheme and technical form</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407418734</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Different from the other two.&nbsp;<br>Mirrors Yeats' deathbed poem</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 14:06:28 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407418734</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Working through grief</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407450062</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>5 stages of grief:<br>Hopelessness in depression in the beginning: poetry doesn't do anything<br>Acceptance: "Hope he gets his rest"</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 14:11:54 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407450062</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>WWII</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407465703</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Anger towards poetry comes from the horrible war.<br>Working through Yeats' death and disappointment towards poetry and its inability to explicitly change the world</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 14:14:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407465703</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Persuasion</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407485786</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Everything may be terrible but the poet can persuade us to not think so negatively as long as they don't convince themselves that poetry is useless.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 14:18:15 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407485786</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>After Death- Christina Rossetti </title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407491735</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Speaker reflecting on their life after death- More famous after death</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-12 14:19:16 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1407491735</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Church Going by Philip Larkin </title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1425538521</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Once I am sure there's nothing going on<br>I step inside, letting the door thud shut.<br>Another church: matting, seats, and stone,<br>And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut<br>For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff<br>Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;<br>And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,<br>Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off<br>My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,<br><br>Move forward, run my hand around the font.<br>From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-<br>Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.<br>Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few<br>Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce<br>"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.<br>The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door<br>I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,<br>Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.<br><br>Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,<br>And always end much at a loss like this,<br>Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,<br>When churches fall completely out of use<br>What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep<br>A few cathedrals chronically on show,<br>Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,<br>And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.<br>Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?<br><br>Or, after dark, will dubious women come<br>To make their children touch a particular stone;<br>Pick simples for a cancer; or on some<br>Advised night see walking a dead one?<br>Power of some sort or other will go on<br>In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;<br>But superstition, like belief, must die,<br>And what remains when disbelief has gone?<br>Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,<br><br>A shape less recognizable each week,<br>A purpose more obscure. I wonder who<br>Will be the last, the very last, to seek<br>This place for what it was; one of the crew<br>That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?<br>Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,<br>Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff<br>Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?<br>Or will he be my representative,<br><br>Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt<br>Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground<br>Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt<br>So long and equably what since is found<br>Only in separation - marriage, and birth,<br>And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built<br>This special shell? For, though I've no idea<br>What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,<br>It pleases me to stand in silence here;<br><br>A serious house on serious earth it is,<br>In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,<br>Are recognised, and robed as destinies.<br>And that much never can be obsolete,<br>Since someone will forever be surprising<br>A hunger in himself to be more serious,<br>And gravitating with it to this ground,<br>Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,<br>If only that so many dead lie round.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-16 14:13:48 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1425538521</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Attendance</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433021925</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Leader: Marc<br>Reader: Sarah<br>Notes: Megan(Absent)&gt;&gt;Kytana<br>everyone else: here</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 13:35:56 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433021925</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Alexis&#39;s Questions</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433041340</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>1.) What is the overall impression of organized religion that this poem gives you? Why do you feel that way?
2.)According to the speaker of the poem, what are some of the differences between religion and superstition?
3.)How does the meter and rhyme scheme contribute to the themes that Larkin explores in the poem? 
4.)Why do you think Larkin title this poem "Church Going"? 
5.)Why does the speaker focus so much on the physical aspects of the church (i.e., the building itself and the "stuff" inside it)? 
6.)How does that natural world figure in here? How might nature relate to religion in this poem?</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 13:38:44 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433041340</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Spiritualism v. Religion</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433045739</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Religious? organized religion v. personal religion. spiritualism?</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 13:39:13 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433045739</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Churches as a Space</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433054246</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>common things happen in a church/@ a church, which keeps it present in a lot of people's minds, contemplative/quiet space</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 13:40:45 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433054246</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connections</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433073322</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>"Araby," Joyce; "some keep the sabbath going to church," Dickinson; "Ode to Pysche," Keats; "Sad Steps," Larkin;&nbsp;"Spanish Cloister," Browning; "Frost at Midnight," Coleridge</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 13:44:01 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433073322</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Coin</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433115270</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Lucky, giving a coin to a dead/dying thing (river Styx), really cheap coin, Irish coin in England</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 13:51:27 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433115270</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Form</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433158830</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Iambic Pentameter, alternating rhymes (with one un-rhyme), speaking to the structure of the church </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 13:59:27 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433158830</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Church Going&quot;</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433168191</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Going to church/church is leaving</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 14:01:08 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433168191</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Natural World</title>
         <author>kytanamaldonado</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433182642</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Nature world over taking the church, nature is eternal while church/religion is not as eternal/strong as nature/as people think&nbsp;, "cross of ground": church built in the shape of a cross, consecrated ground</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-19 14:03:51 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1433182642</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>A Far Cry from Africa Derek Walcott - 1930-2017</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1457188817</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt<br>Of Africa. Kikuyu, quick as flies,<br>Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.<br>Corpses are scattered through a paradise.<br>Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:<br>"Waste no compassion on these separate dead!"<br>Statistics justify and scholars seize<br>The salients of colonial policy.<br>What is that to the white child hacked in bed?<br>To savages, expendable as Jews?<br><br>Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break<br>In a white dust of ibises whose cries<br>Have wheeled since civilization's dawn<br>From the parched river or beast-teeming plain.<br>The violence of beast on beast is read<br>As natural law, but upright man<br>Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain.<br>Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars<br>Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum,<br>While he calls courage still that native dread<br>Of the white peace contracted by the dead.<br><br>Again brutish necessity wipes its hands<br>Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again<br>A waste of our compassion, as with Spain,<br>The gorilla wrestles with the superman.<br>I who am poisoned with the blood of both,<br>Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?<br>I who have cursed<br>The drunken officer of British rule, how choose<br>Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?<br>Betray them both, or give back what they give?<br>How can I face such slaughter and be cool?<br>How can I turn from Africa and live?</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-25 23:38:58 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1457188817</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Calypso - Kamau Brathwaite</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459140126</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>1<br><br>The stone had skidded arc'd and bloomed into islands:<br><br>Cuba and San Domingo<br><br>Jamaica and Puerto Rico<br><br>Grenada Guadeloupe Bonaire<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>curved stone hissed into reef<br><br>wave teeth fanged into clay<br><br>white splash flashed into spray<br><br>Bathsheba Montego Bay<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>bloom of the arcing summers...<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>2<br><br>The islands roared into green plantations<br><br>ruled by silver sugar cane<br><br>sweat and profit<br><br>cutlass profit<br><br>islands ruled by sugar cane<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>And of course it was a wonderful time<br><br>a profitable hospitable well-worth-you-time<br><br>when captains carried receipts for rices<br><br>letters spices wigs<br><br>opera glasses swaggering asses<br><br>debtors vices pigs<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>O it was a wonderful time<br><br>an elegant benevolent redolent time--<br><br>and young Mrs. P.'s quick irrelevant crine<br><br>at four o'clock in the morning...<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>3<br><br>But what of black Sam<br><br>with the big splayed toes<br><br>and the shoe black shiny skin?<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>He carries bucketfulls of water<br><br>'cause his Ma's just had another daughter.<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>And what of John with the European name<br><br>who went to school and dreamt of fame<br><br>his boss one day called him a fool<br><br>and the boss hadn't even been to school...<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>4<br><br>Steel drum steel drum<br><br>hit the hot calypso dancing<br><br>hot rum hot rum<br><br>who goin' stop this bacchanalling?<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>For we glance the banjoy<br><br>dance the limbo<br><br>grow our crops by maljo<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>have loose morals<br><br>gather corals<br><br>father out neighbour's quarrels<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>perhaps when they come&nbsp;<br><br>with their cameras and straw<br><br>hats:&nbsp; sacred pink tourists from the frozen Nawth<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>we should get down to those<br><br>white beaches<br><br>where if we don't wear breeches<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>it becomes an island dance<br><br>Some people doin' well<br><br>while others are catchin' hell<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>o the boss gave our Johnny the sack<br><br>though we beg him please<br><br>please to take 'im back<br><br>&nbsp;<br><br>so now the boy nigratin' overseas...</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 12:37:07 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459140126</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>. How can we analyze the poem &quot;A Far Cry from Africa&quot; by post-colonial criticism approach?Post-colonial criticism does not necessarily seek to approach a work from the &quot;opposite&quot; viewpoint to what might be traditionally considered, but it does consider the work against the backdrop of the colonial society it reflects, taking into account elements such as power dynamics, cultural interaction, and political context</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459473657</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:40:49 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459473657</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>2. How does Walcot compare man to nature in &quot;A Far Cry From Africa&quot;?</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459476211</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Mankind is violent, the war is the same idea as the violence of beast on beasts. Violence is the default for everyone. Becoming gods by inflicting pain on other people, they are not trying to survive they are trying to retain power/gain power</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:41:16 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459476211</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>3. What is the effectiveness of Walcott&#39;s decision to end the poem &quot;A Far Cry from Africa&quot; with a series of rhetorical questions?</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459477225</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>It helps to emphasize how confused Walcott is, he doesn't have the answers to these questions, he just feels torn trying to balance two very different cultures and it's not working very well for him. Also helped to clarify the idea of the poem</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:41:27 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459477225</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459481563</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>War, feeling about war changes as time goes on</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:42:05 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459481563</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459500118</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Crisis of conscious, how can he look at the face of all this horrible things. How can he be okay with the English side and be cool (keep calm and carry on) and also keep with his African side (acknowledging the terrors that English have brought)</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:45:24 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459500118</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459507146</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Torn between two identities of being english and being african, seems like he's saying that there are bad parts of both, and good parts of both,&nbsp;</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:46:32 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459507146</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459509039</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>He may be becoming desensitised to all the bad things going on</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:46:50 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459509039</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;poisoned with the blood of both&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459518042</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>He is mixed</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:48:26 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459518042</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Superman vs gorilla</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459533731</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Gorilla from African, superman from England?&nbsp;Id vs superego? </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:51:10 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459533731</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Connection: Things Fall Apart -- Chinua Achebe</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459546184</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Colonialism is bad, but things within the original culture of Africa are bad, both are problematic to a certain extent, moral greys within both. There's lots of conflict. Life isn't black and white, it's grey bb</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:53:24 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459546184</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459560834</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Is violence a just tool to use for rebellion? Statistics don't paint violent rebellion in a good light, it often doesn't work. All this shiz is going down, all this pain is being caused, but will anything even be fixed? </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 13:55:54 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459560834</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;betray them both, or give back what they give?&quot;</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459590887</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Can you take the good and not the bad? You have to betray them both if you want to only take the good, if you want to take their side and have the good you also have to take the bad. Give back what they give, violence to the world. If something is bad you have to step in and change it, but not wanting to be a part of violence is a valid thing to want, don't want to exacerbate the situation even though you want the culture and home.<br>Or is he not talking about vilence at all? Is he talking about writing and literature, does he write things neither african nor english, or does he give back to the english language and literature or to african language/literature</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 14:01:12 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459590887</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Maljo -- Evil eye</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459679249</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Connection to slavery, going back and also looking at the ways in which colonialization has still created this forced labor</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 14:16:59 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459679249</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title></title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459686826</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Very musical poem, emphasizes rhythm etc. did Brathwaite set this to music? </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 14:18:18 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459686826</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Rhythm</title>
         <author>ecm116</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459695061</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Calypso drums? </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-04-26 14:19:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1459695061</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>“The Werewolf,” A Short Fable by Angela Carter</title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1484901321</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>It is a northern country; they have cold weather, they have cold hearts. Cold; tempest; wild beasts in the forest. It is a hard life. Their houses are built of logs, dark and smoky within. There will be a crude icon of the virgin behind a guttering candle, the leg of a pig hung up to cure, a string of drying mushrooms. A bed, a stool, a table. Harsh, brief, poor lives.To these upland woodsmen, the Devil is as reals as you or I. More so; they have not seen us nor even know that we exist, but the Devil they glimpse often in the graveyards, those bleak and touching townships of the dead where the graves are marked with portraits of the deceased in the naif style and there are no flowers to put in front of them, no flowers grow there, so they put out small votive offerings, little loaves, sometimes a cake that the bears come lumbering from the margins of the forests to snatch away. At midnight, especially on Walpurgisnacht, the Devil holds picnics in the graveyards and invites the witches; then they dig up fresh corpses, and eat them. Anyone will tell you that.Wreaths of garlic on the doors keep out the vampires. A blue-eyed child born feet first on the night of St. John’s Eve will have second sight. When they discover a witch – some old woman whose cheeses ripen when her neighbours’ do not, another old woman whose black cat, oh, sinister! follows her about all the time, they strip the crone, search for her marks, for the supernumerary nipple her familiar sucks. They soon find it. Then they stone her to death.<br><br>Winter and cold weather.<br><br>Go and visit grandmother, who has been sick. Take her the oatcakes I’ve baked for her on the hearthstone and a little pot of butter.<br><br>The good child does as her mother bids – five miles’ trudge through the forest; do not leave the path because of the bears, the wild boar, the starving wolves. Here, take your father’s hunting knife; you know how to use it.<br><br>The child had a scabbby coat of sheepskin to keep out the cold, she knew the forest too well to fear it but she must always be on her guard. When she heard that freezing howl of a wolf, she dropped her gifts, seized her knife, and turned on the beast.<br><br>It was a huge one, with red eyes and running, grizzled chops; any but a mountaineer’s child would have died of fright at the sight of it. It went for her throat, as wolves do, but she made a great swipe at it with her father’s knife and slashed off its right forepaw.<br><br>The wolf let out a gulp, almost a sob, when it saw what had happened to it; wolves are less brave than they seem. It went lolloping off disconsolately between the trees as well as it could on three legs, leaving a trail of blood behind it. The child wiped the blade of her knife clean on her apron, wrapped up the wolf’s paw in the cloth in which her mother had packed the oatcakes and went on towards her grandmother’s house. Soon it came on to snow so thickly that the path and any footsteps, track or spoor that might have been upon it were obscured.<br><br>She found her grandmother was so sick she had taken to her bed and fallen into a fretful sleep, moaning and shaking so that the child guessed she had a fever. She felt the forehead, it burned. She shook out the cloth from her basket, to use it to make the old woman a cold compress, and the wolf’s paw fell to the floor.<br><br>But it was no longer a wolf’s paw. It was a hand, chopped off at the wrist, a hand toughened with work and freckled with old age. There was a wedding ring on the third finger and a wart in the index finger. By the wart, she knew it for her grandmother’s hand.<br><br>She pulled back the sheet but the old woman woke up, at that, and began to struggle, squawking and shrieking like a thing possessed. But the child was strong, and armed with her father’s hunting knife; she managed to hold her grandmother down long enough to see the cause of her fever. There was a bloody stump where her right hand should have been, festering already.<br><br>The child crossed herself and cried out so loud the neighbours heard her and come rushing in. They know the wart on the hand at once for a witch’s nipple; they drove the old woman, in her shift as she was, out into the snow with sticks, beating her old carcass as far as the edge of the forest, and pelted her with stones until she fell dead.<br><br>Now the child lived in her grandmother’s house; she prospered.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 12:37:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1484901321</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The Snow Child by Angela Carter </title>
         <author>aec121</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485091989</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Midwinter — invincible, immaculate. The Count and his wife go riding, he on a grey mare and she on a black one, she wrapped in the glittering pelts of black foxes; and she wore high, black, shining boots with scarlet heels, and spurs. Fresh snow fell on snow already fallen; when it ceased, the whole world was white. “I wish I had a girl as white as snow,” says the Count. They ride on. They come to a hole in the snow; this hole is filled with blood. He says: “I wish I had a girl as red as blood.” So they ride on again; here is a raven, perched on a bare bough. “I wish I had a girl as black as that bird’s feathers.”<br><br>As soon as he completed her description, there she stood, beside the road, white skin, red mouth, black hair and stark naked; she was the child of his desire and the Countess hated her. The Count lifted her up and sat her in front of him on his saddle but the Countess had only one thought:how shall I be rid of her?<br><br>The Countess dropped her glove in the snow and told the girl to get down to look for it; she meant to gallop off and leave her there but the Count said: “I’ll buy you new gloves.” At that, the furs sprang off the Countess’s shoulders and twined round the naked girl. Then the Countess threw her diamond brooch through the ice of a frozen pond: “Dive in and fetch it for me,” she said; she thought the girl would drown. But the Count said: “Is she a fish to swim in such cold weather?” Then her boots leapt off the Countess’s feet and on to the girl’s legs. Now the Countess was bare as a bone and the girl furred and booted; the Count felt sorry for his wife. They came to a bush of roses, all in flower. “Pick me one,” said the Countess to the girl. “I can’t deny you that,” said the Count.<br><br>So the girl picks a rose; pricks her finger on the thorn; bleeds; screams; falls.<br><br>Weeping, the Count got off his horse, unfastened his breeches and thrust his virile member into the dead girl. The Countess reined in her stamping mare and watched him narrowly; he was soon finished.<br><br>Then the girl began to melt. Soon there was nothing left of her but a feather a bird might have dropped; a blood stain, like the trace of a fox’s kill on the snow; and the rose she had pulled off the bush. Now the Countess had all her clothes on again. With her long hand, she stroked her furs. The Count picked up the rose, bowed and handed it to his wife; when she touched it, she dropped it. “It bites!” she said.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:21:17 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485091989</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Witches</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485208473</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Salem/European witch trials- accusations of bold women being evil beings.<br> -Witches are different from werewolves<br><br></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:44:44 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485208473</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Lady of Shallot</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485211543</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The man only wants beauty and no worth within his sexual partners.<br>Work of women- </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:45:20 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485211543</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Henry VIII</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485216949</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:46:23 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485216949</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Little Red riding hood</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485218527</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Grandmother is the wolf instead of wolf eating grandma and disguising itself as her. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:46:41 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485218527</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Carmilla and Vampire Stories</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485223808</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Bloodiness and death throughout the story.<br>Hole of blood similar to coffin of blood in "Carmilla": child is like a vampire.<br> -child dies when stabbed by piece of wood (thorn).</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:47:38 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485223808</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Winter</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485226026</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>associated with death and oppression: weight of snow fall.<br>Lack of safety in the cold- persistent need for shelter and warmth.<br>Winter suggests no character growth. If no seasons change, there can be no growth or change.&nbsp;<br>Rosebush in the dead of winter-&nbsp;<br>the child was never real. She is just an object made by the man (seen in the way she simply melts away.<br> -Winter = the cold hearts of the villagers<br><br></div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:48:04 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485226026</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Larkin- Church going</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485230444</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:48:56 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485230444</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>YA adaptations of fairytales (Cinder, The Looking Glass Wars etc)</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485242719</link>
         <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:51:17 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485242719</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Frosty the Snowman</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485247397</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>... but creepy</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:52:12 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485247397</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Walpurgisnacht</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485250616</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Walpurgisnacht: holiday during change of seasons. Right before Saints holiday.<br> -Paganism and christianity brush up against another. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:52:46 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485250616</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>The snow queen</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485255059</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Woman becomes evil once pierced by icicle. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:53:36 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485255059</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>&quot;Born feet first...&quot;</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485266650</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Little girl was destined to be able to "see" things people can't.&nbsp;<br> -Destines her for failure due to Christianity suppressing pagan ideologies.  </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:55:46 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485266650</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>No thought process</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485277855</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Watching the girl from the outside and seeing her actions. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:57:55 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485277855</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Sheepskin</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485282202</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The girl wears sheepskin and is attacked by wolf.</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:58:46 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485282202</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Reason for attack?</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485284354</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Women are in competition even when they are related in the mythology of witches. They seek youth and beauty.&nbsp;<br>&nbsp;-Intrinsic nature of women to attack other women. Forced by patriarchal sexism (internalized sexism). </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 13:59:11 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485284354</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Witches nipple/mark</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485297679</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Familiar suckles on the mark.&nbsp;<br> -Familiar and witch have special bond</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 14:01:48 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485297679</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Girl as Heroine</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485301719</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>The girl knew about the witches mark.&nbsp;<br>&nbsp;-She could have acquired her grandma's possessions by exposing her, but she doesn't.<br>&nbsp;-Little girl defends herself when grandma oversteps her boundaries. She cuts the hand off when the grandma goes for the throat. &nbsp;<br>-Participates in protecting community. Community vs. Family.&nbsp;<br>-No greed: defense</div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 14:02:34 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485301719</guid>
      </item>
      <item>
         <title>Girl is not a witch?</title>
         <author>dcb124</author>
         <link>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485312615</link>
         <description><![CDATA[<div>Uses a knife instead of any supernatural power to defend herself. </div>]]></description>
         <enclosure url="" />
         <pubDate>2021-05-03 14:04:43 UTC</pubDate>
         <guid>https://padlet.com/aec121/op1s3l04qiexrj5p/wish/1485312615</guid>
      </item>
   </channel>
</rss>
