SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?

William Shakespeare - 1564-1616

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Although William Shakespeare is best known as a playwright, he is also the poet behind
154 sonnets, which were collected for the first time in a collection in 1609. Based on
the Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet, Shakespeare’s sonnets differ from the norm by
addressing not only a young woman – which was the norm in Italy – but also a young man,
known throughout as the Fair Youth. Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? is one of the
Fair Youth poems, addressed to a mysterious male figure.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? attempts to justify the speaker’s beloved’s beauty
by comparing it to a summer’s day, and comes to the conclusion that his beloved is better
after listing some of the summer’s negative qualities. While summer is short and
occasionally too hot, his beloved has a beauty that is everlasting, and that will never be
uncomfortable to gaze upon.
The speaker opens the poem with a question addressed to the beloved: “Shall I compare
thee to a summer’s day?” The next eleven lines are devoted to such a comparison. In line 2,
the speaker stipulates what mainly differentiates the young man from the summer’s day: he
is “more lovely and more temperate.” Summer’s days tend toward extremes: they are
shaken by “rough winds”; in them, the sun (“the eye of heaven”) often shines “too hot,” or
too dim. And summer is fleeting: its date is too short, and it leads to the withering of
autumn, as “every fair from fair sometime declines.” The final quatrain of the sonnet tells
how the beloved differs from the summer in that respect: his beauty will last forever (“Thy
eternal summer shall not fade...”) and never die. In the couplet, the speaker explains how
the beloved’s beauty will accomplish this feat, and not perish because it is preserved in the
poem, which will last forever; it will live “as long as men can breathe or eyes can see.”
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Upon Westminster Bridge
EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Westminster Bridge is a road and foot traffic bridge stretching over the River Thames,
linking Westminster and Lambeth. It proved essential in ferrying traffic to the developing
South London and south coast ports, thus avoiding the congested London roads.
While William Wordsworth was taken with the glory of nature (that does not mean to say
that he was unaware of the beauty offered in other places as well) London, which was
considerably not natural, has attracted the attention of several poets, among them
Wordsworth. His poem Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 is a
celebration of this city.

The poem is a Petrarchan or Italian sonnet, arranged into an octave or eight-line section
and a sestet or six-line section, rhyming abbaabba and cdcdcd . The first eight lines praise
the beauty of London in the early morning light, as the poet stands on Westminster Bridge
admiring the surrounding buildings. Wordsworth begins by offering the view from
Westminster Bridge the highest possible praise: there is nothing fairer in all the world. And
he writes that anyone who could see such a sight and just carry on walking past without
stopping to appreciate the view would be soulless indeed. London appears to wear the
morning’s beauty like a piece of clothing. The ships, towers, and other buildings that make
up the London skyline are silent (the world hasn’t begun to stir yet) and ‘bare’. Here there is
no gaudiness but plain and simple beauty, despite the man-made origins of these
structures. These buildings appear to be submitting to nature: they ‘lie / Open’ to the fields
and the sky, those earthly and ethereal landscapes that sandwich them, as if the London
buildings are between earthly beauty and the beauty of the heavens, and exist not in
contrast to them but as a natural bridge between them. Because the workaday world hasn’t
started yet and the wheels of industry are still, the air is ‘smokeless’ at the moment: clear
and clean. But this will be overturned when London wakes: in reality, the world of nature is
at the mercy of mankind and the systems of trade and industry which rule from the city, just
as the sky will be polluted by the plumes of smoke from the chimneys of factories.

Lord Ullin’s Daughter

Thomas Campbell

A Chieftan to the Highlands bound,

Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry;
And I’ll give thee a silver pound
To row us o’er the ferry.’

‘Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?’
‘Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

‘And fast before her father’s men

Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

‘His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?’

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight:

‘I’ll go, my chief – I’m ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.

‘And by my word, the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry:
So, though the waves are raging white,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men-
Their trampling sounded nearer.

‘Oh! Haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries,

‘Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.’

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her-
When oh! Too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o’er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore-
His wrath was chang’d to wailing.

For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover;
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.

‘Come back! Come back!’ he cried in grief,

‘Across this stormy water;
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!- oh, my daughter!’

‘Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,

Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild went o’er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

The poem is a ballad, which tells the tragic tale of Lord Ullin’s daughter and her lover, a
Scottish chieftain. The poem begins with the girl and the chieftain arriving at the banks of
Lochgyle with the intention of going across it, to safety. They are being closely followed by
Lord Ullin and his men and so the two lovers are desperate to go across before others arrive
at the shore. The lover requests the boatman to ferry them across and promises to pay him
a silver pound.

The boatman hesitates because the weather is stormy and it is dangerous to cross the Loch
just then. But, when the girl pleads with him and says that she would rather face the stormy
 weather than an angry father who would surely kill her lover, the boatman is touched and
agrees to take them across without money.

Thus, the boat leaves the shore just as Lord Ullin and his men reach the place. All his anger
evaporates the moment he sees his daughter in the boat, battling against the fury of the
raging tempest. The sight of his daughter crying out for help from the storm-ravaged boat
melts his heart and he cries out to her to return with the assurance that he would forgive
her. But it is too late and before his very eyes the little boat capsizes and the two lovers and
the boatman are drowned in the turbulent waters.

The mood of the poem is very dark, serious, emotional and sad as it recounts the tragic tale
of the two lovers. The setting of the poem is the Scottish Highlands.

MY LAST DUCHESS
BY ROBERT BROWNING

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—
E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

‘My Last Duchess’ by Robert Browning is a well-known dramatic monologue. It suggests that
the speaker has killed his wife. The poet’s inspiration for this poem came from the Duke and
Duchess Ferarra. The Duchess died under very suspicious circumstances.
This poem is loosely based on historical events involving Alfonso, the Duke of Ferrara, who
lived in the 16th century. The Duke is the speaker of the poem, and tells us he is entertaining
an emissary who has come to negotiate the Duke’s marriage (he has recently been
widowed) to the daughter of another powerful family. As he shows the visitor through his
palace, he stops before a portrait of the late Duchess, apparently a young and lovely girl.
The Duke begins reminiscing about the portrait sessions, then about the Duchess herself.
His musings give way to a diatribe(speak badly) on her disgraceful behavior: he claims she
flirted with everyone and did not appreciate his “gift of a nine-hundred-years- old name.” As
his monologue continues, the reader realizes with ever-more chilling certainty that the Duke
in fact caused the Duchess’s early demise: when her behavior escalated, “[he] gave
commands; / Then all smiles stopped together.” Having made this disclosure, the Duke
returns to the business at hand: arranging for another marriage, with another young girl. As
 the Duke and the emissary walk leave the painting behind, the Duke points out other
notable artworks in his collection.
“My Last Duchess” comprises rhyming pentameter lines. The lines do not employ end-stops;
rather, they use enjambment—that is, sentences and other grammatical units do not
necessarily conclude at the end of lines.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

BY THOMAS GRAY
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
PARADISE LOST Book 1
By John Milton

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit

Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of EDEN, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of OREB, or of SINAI, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of CHAOS: Or if SION Hill
Delight thee more, and SILOA'S Brook that flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th' AONIAN Mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.

And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost prefer

Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread
Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss
And mad'st it pregnant: What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert th' Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.

Say first, for Heav’n hides nothing from thy view

Nor the deep Tract of Hell, say first what cause
Mov’d our Grand Parents in that happy State,
Favour’d of Heav’n so highly, to fall off
From their Creator, and transgress his Will
For one restraint, Lords of the World besides?
Who first seduc’d them to that fowl revolt?
Th’ infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile
Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv’d
The Mother of Mankinde, what time his Pride
Had cast him out from Heav’n, with all his Host
Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring
To set himself in Glory above his Peers,
He trusted to have equal’d the most High,
If he oppos’d; and with ambitious aim
Against the Throne and Monarchy of God
Rais’d impious War in Heav’n and Battel proud
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
Hurld headlong flaming from th’ Ethereal Skie
With hideous ruine and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire,
Who durst defie th’ Omnipotent to Arms.
Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe
Confounded though immortal: But his doom
Reserv’d him to more wrath; for now the thought
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes
That witness’d huge affliction and dismay
Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate:
At once as far as Angels kenn he views
The dismal Situation waste and wilde,
A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great Furnace flam’d, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv’d only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed
With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum’d:
Such place Eternal Justice had prepar’d
For those rebellious, here their Prison ordain’d
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far remov’d from God and light of Heav’n
As from the Center thrice to th’ utmost Pole.
O how unlike the place from whence they fell!
There the companions of his fall, o’rewhelm’d
With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,
He soon discerns, and weltring by his side
One next himself in power, and next in crime,
Long after known in PALESTINE, and nam’d
BEELZEBUB. To whom th’ Arch-Enemy,
And thence in Heav’n call’d Satan, with bold words
Breaking the horrid silence thus began.

The book Paradise Lost is an epic poem – which is a long story told in verse form. The poem
is written in blank verse, or lines of unrhymed iambic pentameter, and is over 10,000 lines
long. Milton had become blind by the time he composed much of this poem and so dictated
it to different scribes including his daughter, Deborah.

The poem is a retelling of the story of Adam and Eve from the biblical book of Genesis which
describes the creation of Heaven and Earth and of Adam and Eve.
 The selected lines from the poem Paradise Lost opens with an invocation and the Milton the
poet explains the theme of his poem-first act of disobedience towards the God and then its
consequences. He explains the story of Adam and Eve who ate the Fruit of Forbidden Tree
that brought sorrow and death to human beings until Jesus came to the world and purified
it again brought happiness back.

Now Milton invokes the Muse (source of mystical inspiration) to assist him divinely in giving
voice to his purpose of writing (Milton calls it Adventurous Song). Milton’s muse is Holy
Spirit which, in his views, makes his song superior to the others. According to Milton, his
purpose of writing is to “assert Eternal Providence and justifie the wayes of God to men.”

In section 2, Milton moves from prayer to the disobedience of Adam and Eve that occurred
because of the serpent (i.e. Satan) that made them be expelled from the Heaven. Poet then
moves to an event before Adam and Eve. Satan who was Lucifer, an angel, who along with
his companions considered himself “to have equal’d the most High” and rebelled against
the God.

A war started between God and Satan, in which the latter was defeated and thrown out of
Heaven into Hell along with his companions who are now demons. All the demons including
Satan remain “rowling in the fiery Gulfe” i.e. the fire for nine days.

Around them is “dungeon horrible” and fire flames. Poet describes the scene of Hell which
he calls Choas. Satan ultimately regains the conscious and “with bold words breaking the
horrid silence” speaks to Beelzebub.

The Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

"The Raven" is the most famous of Poe's poems, notable for its melodic and dramatic
qualities. With eight stressed-unstressed two-syllable feet per lines, combined with the
predominating ABCBBB end rhyme scheme and the frequent use of internal rhyme, refrain
of "nothing more" and "nevermore" give the poem a musical lilt when read aloud. Poe also
emphasizes the "O" sound in words such as "Lenore" and "nevermore" in order to underline
the melancholy and lonely sound of the poem and to establish the overall atmosphere.
This popular narrative poem is written in the first person. ‘The Raven‘ personifies the feeling
of intense grief and loss, while other symbols throughout the poem reinforce
a melodramatic mood that emphasizes the main character’s grief and loss. ‘The
Raven’ explores the world of emotional wars that individuals face in all walks of life;
specifically, the fight one can never ignore, the fight of control over the emotions of grief
and loss. These battles are not physical, but leave scarring and bruising just as if they were.
Poe has produced a wonderful piece of work that resonates with the feelings and
experiences of every reader that comes across this poem.

The scene opens on a “dreary” or boring midnight and a “weak and weary” character. The
quiet midnight paints a picture of mystery and suspense for the reader. The air of suspense
continues to build as Poe shifts the narrative from the tapping on the door to the thoughts
of the character. This could also portray that the character himself is avoiding answering the
door. If we look at the door symbolizing his weaknesses and insecurities we can easily
understand why he would want to avoid opening up to whatever was tapping on it. The
character begins to build some confidence as he draws closer towards the door to see who
 would come to see him at such an hour. He calls out saying sorry ‘Sir’ or ‘Madame’, he had
been napping and the ‘tapping’ at the door was so light that he wasn’t even sure that there
was actually someone knocking at the door, at first. As he is saying this, he opens the door
only to find nothing but the darkness of the night.

Finding nothing on the other side of the door leaves him stunned. He stands there staring
into the darkness with his mind racing. How could he have heard the clear continuous
knocking at the door only to find nothing…physical? Now because he had been pining for
Lenore, she quickly comes to mind, so he whispers her name into the empty night ‘Lenore?’
and an echo whispers back ‘Lenore!’.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

BY WALT WHITMAN
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

"A Noiseless Patient Spider" is a lyric poem written by the 19th Century American poet Walt
Whitman. Whitman originally wrote the poem as part of a longer piece, "Whispers of
Heavenly Death," for The Broadway, A London Magazine in 1868. The poem was later
republished in an 1891 edition of Leaves of Grass. Although much shorter than many of his
well-known poems, "A Noiseless Patient Spider" deals with one of the central concerns in
Whitman's work: what it means to be an individual seeking and creating connections with
the larger world.
In this poem, Whitman makes excellent use of imagery and metaphor. The speaker starts by
vividly describing the experience of watching the spider weave its web, allowing
the reader to share his fascination. In the second stanza, he elevates these images into
metaphors for his soul's figurative desires: "to the bridge you will need be formed" and "till
the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere." Even the title of the poem is a descriptive
image; the phrase "A noiseless patient spider" invokes the image of this tiny creature sitting
perfectly still, waiting for its moment.
In this poem, the spider and the speaker's soul both face a similar plight. They must use
their skills to build connections, searching for meaningful and effective bonds. In the first
stanza, Whitman's characterization of the spider reads as somewhat hopeless - the creature
is "isolated" and will be "ever unreeling" his web without any promise of making an impact
on his "vast" environment. However, as is often the case with Whitman's poetry, the poem
ends with an optimistic idea. Although it is difficult to "ceaselessly" search for connections,
his soul will eventually be successful and then he can rest, just like a spider with a
completed web.

This poem is made up of two stanzas of five lines each. As usual, there is no set meter or
rhyme scheme. The separation of stanzas in this poem represents a shift from literal (the
speaker watching the spider make its web on the rock) to figurative (the speaker addressing
his soul's attempts to make connections in the world). The aim of the poem is to draw the
comparison between the speaker's soul and the spider, which is why the two stanzas mirror
each other in size and structure.

The Old Pond

by Matsuo Bashō

Furu ike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
The literal translation of the words of this haiku poem, by Robert Hass, is:

Old pond…
a frog jumps in
water’s sound

The old pond-

The haiku begins with the image of the old pond. It can be somewhere in a forest or far from
human habitation. Bashō associates no other sound with this image. So, the pond is
probably at a distance, in tranquility and silence. Moreover, it is old. The pond is symbolic of
a sage. The poet somehow connects himself with this pond. The old pond seems to be
a symbol of the subconscious mind. It is there inside everyone. Like the old pond, it exists in
silence. Moreover, the poet refers to the subconscious mind of an old person. Here, the old
man is undoubtedly the poet himself.
a frog jumps in,
Suddenly a frog breaks the tranquility of the pond. Why does the frog jump into the pond?
One has to ask this question first before moving to the climax of this haiku. The frog might
have jumped into the pond, not for breeding or laying eggs as it’s not the season of
monsoon. So, one thing is clear that the frog does it for its biological instinct. It seems as if
the water of the pond rejuvenates the frog. Like the frog, a person also needs solace to give
time to his mind and soul. Thus, the frog jumping into the water can be a symbolic reference
to meditation.

sound of the water.

In the last line of the haiku, the sound becomes an interesting part of the imagery. The
sound is not artificial. An external stimulus is responsible for the creation of sound. When
the frog jumps into the water, it generates a short-staying sound. It isn’t shrill. Yet it’s not
deep.

‘The Old Pond’ is one of the best-known Japanese haiku of all time. This haiku consists of
three phrases that contain the syllable count of 5-7-5.
This haiku contains manifold meaning inside its brevity and compactness. To begin with, the
literal meaning of the Japanese text is of great importance. As it gives the key to the inner
meaning of the text. In the first phrase, “Furu” means old, and “ike” means pond. Here, “ya”
is a “kireji” or “cutting word”. Thereafter, in the second phrase, “kawazu” means frog, and
“tobikomu” means “jumping into”. In the last phrase, “mizu” means water, and “oto” stands
for sound. Here, “no” is a phoneme or an “On”. In Japanese, “On” stands for “sound”. In this
way, the literal meaning of the text, in Standard English, is “Old pond—frog jumping into—
water’s sound.”