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Main English, B.A. Sem. II

Paper No. 4 POETRY

7/1/2013

Prof.Nishant Pandya

Yussouf James Russell Lowell A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent, Saying, 'Behold one outcast and in dread, Against whose life the bow of power is bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head; I come to thee for shelter and for food, To Yussouf, called through all our tribes "The Good." 'This tent is mine,' said Yussouf, 'but no more Than it is God's come in and be at peace; Freely shall thou partake of all my store As I of His who buildeth over these Our tents his glorious roof of night and day, And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay.' So Yussouf entertained his guest that night, And, waking him ere day, said: 'Here is gold; My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight; Depart before the prying day grow bold.' As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, So nobleness enkindleth nobleness. That inward light the stranger's face made grand, Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling low, He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf's hand, Sobbing: 'O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so; I will repay thee; all this thou hast done Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!' 'Take thrice the gold,' said Yussouf 'for with thee Into the desert, never to return, My one black thought shall ride away from me; First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn, Balanced and just are all of God's decrees; Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace!'

Main English_Sem. II_Paper No. 4_Poetry

The Old Woman Joseph Compbell As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an aged face. As the spent radiance Of the winter sun, So is a woman With her travail done. Her brood gone from her, And her thoughts as still As the waters Under a ruined mill.

Fear No More the Heat O the Sun William Shakespeare Fear no more the heat o' the sun; Nor the furious winter's rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney sweepers come to dust. Fear no more the frown of the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke: Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dread thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan; All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee!
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Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!

Ozymandias P.B. Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptorwell those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear -"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.' Fame Is A Food That Dead Men Eat Henry Austin Dobson Fame is a food that dead men eat,I have no stomach for such meat. In little light and narrow room, They eat it in the silent tomb, With no kind voice of comrade near To bid the banquet be of cheer. But Friendship is a nobler thing,Of Friendship it is good to sing. For truly, when a man shall end, He lives in memory of his friend, Who doth his better part recall, And of his faults make funeral.
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"CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE" By Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639). How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise Or vice; Who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good: Who hath his life from rumours freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great; Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend; -- This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

Joy and woe are woven fine by William Blake Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine, Under every grief and pine, Runs a joy with silken twine. It is right it should be so, We were made for joy and woe, And when this we rightly know, Through the world we safely go.
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How sleep the Brave William Collins. 17211759 HOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10 And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

Daybreak A wind came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me." It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone." And hurried landward far away, Crying, "Awake! it is the day." It said unto the forest, "Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!" It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing." And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near." It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn." It shouted through the belfry-tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."

Main English_Sem. II_Paper No. 4_Poetry