MID-TEST PHONOLOGY MAGISTER BAHASA INGGRIS

NAME : ELITARIA BESTRI AGUSTINA SIREGAR

NIM : 147052007

Contentment
Friend, there be they on whom mishap
Or never or so rarely comes,
That when they think thereof, they snap
Derisive thumbs:

And there be they who lightly lose

Their all, yet feel no aching void;
Should aught annoy them, they refuse
To be annoyed:

And fain would I be e'en as these!

Life is with such all beer and skittles;
They are not difficult to please
About their victuals:

The trout, the grouse, the early pea,

By such, if there, are freely taken;
If not, they munch with equal glee
Their bit of bacon:

And when they wax a little gay

And chaff the public after luncheon,
If they're confronted with a stray
Policeman's truncheon,

They gaze thereat with outstretched necks,

And laughter which no threats can smother,
And tell the horror-stricken X
That he's another.

In snow time if they cross a spot

Where unsuspected boys have slid,
They would not fall down -- though they would not
Mind if they did:

When the spring rosebud which they wear

Breaks short and tumbles from its stem,
No thought of being angry e'er
 Dawns upon them;

Though 'twas Jemima's hand that placed,

(As well you ween) at evening's hour,
In the love button-hole that chaste
And cherished flower.

And when they travel, if they find

That they have left their pocket-compass
Or Murray or thick boots behind,
They raise no rumpus,

But plod serenely on without:

Knowing it's better to endure
The evil which beyond all doubt
You cannot cure.

When for that early train they're late,

They do not make, their woes the text
Of sermons in the Times, but wait
On for the next;

And jump inside, and only grin

Should it appear that that dry wag,
The guard, omitted to put in
Their carpet-bag.

C.S. CARVERLEY
 Blackbird

He comes on chosen evenings,

My blackbird bountiful, and sings
Over the garden of the town
Just at the hour the sun goes down.
His flight across the chimneys thick,
By some divine arithmetic,
Comes to his customary stack,
And couches there his plumage black,
And there he lifts his yellow bill,
Kindled against the sunset, till
These suburbs are like Dymock woods
Where music has her solitudes,
And while he mocks the winter's wrong
Rapt on his pinnacle of song,
Figured above our garden plots
Those are celestial chimney-pots.

JOHN DRINKWATER
 The Cherry Tree
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

A. E. HOUSMAN