H ERITAGE H ALL E NGLISH IV
BRITISH POETRY Romanticism~Victorianism~Modernism
CHAPTER 1
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ROMANTICISM Romanticism (1798-1850)was a literary Type to enter text movement characterized by an emphasis on individualism and independence, finding inspiration from nature, and valuing feeling, imagination, and intuition over reason. Romantics are often depicted as idealists who view the past as being better than the present and who seek to escape their problems rather than face them head on. Because Romantics view the countryside as a place of independence, moral clarity, and healthful living, many of their poems are set outside or use nature as the subject matter. Take the time to appreciate a flower, slow down and escape the city, and you might just become a Romantic.
THE POETS •
William Wordsworth “Lines Written in Early Spring” “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” “The World is Too Much With Us”
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Coleridge “Kubla Kahn”
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Byron “So We’ll Go No More a Roving” “She Walks in Beauty as the Night”
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Shelley “Mutability” “Ozymandias”
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Keats “When I have Fears” “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”
THEMES TO CONSIDER •
Nature
How do the poets view nature? What do they gain from it? What is their relationship with nature? •
Death/Memoriums
How do the poets view death? How do they grieve? How do they remember those who have passed or how do they themselves want to be remembered? •
Change
How do the poets feel about change? Do they embrace the new or long for the old? Do they feel threatened by change or see it as a solution? •
Love/Beauty
What is the value of beauty, according to the poets? How do they express feelings of love? What is the source and object of their love?
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ROMANTICISM IN ART & POETRY
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Artists and writers have often echoed the same stylistic reflections of the time, and so it is helpful to examine the artwork of the time period to provide us with a visual representation of the values and beliefs of the writers. Romanticism in art was a deeply-felt style which was individualistic, beautiful, exotic, and emotionally wrought. In many of Caspar David Friedrich’s paintings, the people are usually portrayed with their backs to the viewer, engaged in contemplating the nature before them and encouraging the viewer to do likewise. The emphasis is on nature and the feelings it arouses rather than on the people themselves. Impressionism was another art movement that strove for a naturalistic and down-to-earth treatment of its subjects. The hallmark of the style is the attempt to capture the subjective impression of light in a scene. In the works of Impressionists’ such as Monet and Pissarro, we also find a common trait of Romantic writers-- the praise of the common people engaging with nature.
Gallery 1.1 Romanticism in Art
Caspar David Friedrich’s “Woman Before the Rising Sea” (1818-20).
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Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud By William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed---and gazed---but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? 4
Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coledridge Or a Vision in a Dream. A Fragment
The World is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 5
So we'll go no more a roving by George Gordon Byron
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!
So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw; It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.
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She Walks in Beauty by George Gordon Byron I. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Mutability by Percy Bysshe Shelley We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, Streaking the darkness radiantly!—yet soon Night closes round, and they are lost for ever: Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings Give various response to each varying blast, To whose frail frame no second motion brings One mood or modulation like the last. We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep; We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep; Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away: It is the same!—For, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free: Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.
II. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. III. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
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When I Have Fears that I May Cease to Be by John Keats
Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high piled books, in charact’ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
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 sculptor well 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."
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La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes-So kissed to sleep.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.
And there we slumbered on the moss, And there I dreamed, ah woe betide, The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill side.
I see a lilly on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cried--"La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!"
I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful, a faery's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side.
I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.
And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. 9
CHAPTER 2
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VICTORIANISM Rapid and unpredictable change marked the Victorian Era (1837-1901) as increased factories and mining changed the business world, Darwin’s theories of evolution changed people’s views of creation, and the machinery of the Industrial Revolution altered the way people lived. These changes were either viewed as progress or as the downfall of humanity. But unlike the Romantics who battled change by escaping, Victorians embraced a level of social consciousness and started reform movements to fight the injustices they saw threatening their new world. Reforming society was the proper task of the artist. If you are a utilitarian, clear headed, socially minded kind of person, you just might be a Victorian.
THE POETS •
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Elizabeth Barrett Browning “Sonnets from the Portguese #43”
THEMES TO CONSIDER Love/Beauty
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What is the value of beauty, according to the poets? How do they express feelings of love? What is the source and object of their love?
Robert Browning “Meeting at Night” “My Last Duchess”
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Alfred Lord Tennyson “Lady of Shalot” “Crossing the Bar”
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Matthew Arnold “The Buried Life” “Dover Beach”
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Gerard Manley Hopkins “Pied Beauty” “God’s Grandeur”
Death/Memorium
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How do the poets view death? How do they want to be remembered or how do they remember others?
Religion/God
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How do the poets view God? What seems to be the role of religion in their poetry? Has religion been replaced by something else or is it replacing something?
Communication
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How do the poets express the difficulties of communicating with others? What causes this struggle?
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WHAT’S IT LIKE TO BE A VICTORIAN?
Movie 2.1 What the Victorians did for us: Playing God
Movie 2.2 What the Victorians did for us: Social Progress
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How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
Meeting at Night by Robert Browning The gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low: And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!
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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: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said 'Frà 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, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà 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, 't was 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 pretence 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!
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The Lady of Shalott by Lord Alfred Tennyson
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
Part I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below,
By the margin, willow-veiled, Slide the heavy barges trailed By slow horses; and unhailed The shallop flitteth silken-sailed Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
Gallery 2.1 Artists Depictions of The Lady of Shalott
Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott."
John William Waterhouse
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Part II There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott.
Part III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling through the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-haired page in crimson clad, Goes by to towered Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazoned baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. 16
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often through the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott.
Part IV In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; On burnished hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flowed His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.
And down the river's dim expanse, Like some bold seĂŤr in a trance Seeing all his own mischance-With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror cracked from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-The leaves upon her falling light-Through the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.
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Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot. For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.
Crossing the Bar by Lord Alfred Tennyson Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.
Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.
Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have cross’d the bar.
Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."
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The Buried Life by Matthew Arnold
Ah, well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, We know, we know that we can smile; But there 's a something in this breast, To which thy light words bring no rest, And thy gay smiles no anodyne; Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, And turn those limpid eyes on mine, And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.
Fate, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be, By what distractions he would be possess'd, How he would pour himself in every strife, And well-nigh change his own identity; That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self, and force him to obey, Even in his own despite his being's law, Bade through the deep recesses of our breast The unregarded River of our Life Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, Though driving on with it eternally.
Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? I knew the mass of men conceal'd Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame reprov'd; I knew they liv'd and mov'd Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet The same heart beats in every human breast.
But often, in the world's most crowded streets, But often, in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life, A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us, to know Whence our lives come and where they go.
But we, my love—does a like spell benumb Our hearts—our voices?—must we too be dumb?
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And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas, none ever mines! And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power, But hardly have we, for one little hour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves; Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through our breast, But they course on for ever unexpress'd. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well—but 'tis not true! And then we will no more be rack'd With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power; Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call! Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, From the soul's subterranean depth upborne As from an infinitely distant land, Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey A melancholy into all our day.
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again! The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know, A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur, and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth for ever chase The flying and elusive shadow, Rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the Sea where it goes. Dover Beach By Matthew Arnold The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast, the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Only—but this is rare— When a belovèd hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a lov'd voice caress'd— A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast
Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 20
At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins Glory be to God for dappled things-For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise Him.
The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.
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God’s Grandeur By Gerard Manley Hopkins The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs-Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
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CHAPTER 3
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MODERNISM Modernism (1890-1950) was a literary period which emphasized bold experimentation in style and form. Disillusioned by the failure of the American dream and two world wars, Modernists rejected the traditional values and beliefs of the past and valued instead the Anti-hero--someone who is flawed and expressed the real alienation and fragmentation of the modern world. Thanks to the influence of Freud, they began to be interested in the inner workings of the mind and explored stream of consciousness techniques in their writing. Modernism requires the reader to approach the text with the attitude of just enjoying the journey rather than being fixated on the end destination. They are interested in asking questions rather than finding answers. Embrace ambiguity and experimentation and you will feel right at home with the Modernists.
THE POETS
Pre-Modern vs. Modern World •
W. B. Yeats “A Coat” “The Circus Animal’s Desertion” “Fascination of What’s Difficult”
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T.S. Eliot “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
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Dylan Thomas “Do Not Go Gentle”
Communication
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H.D (Hilda Doolittle) “Sea Rose” “Prayer”
Nature
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Philip Larkin “Church Going” “Talking in Bed” “Places, Loved Ones”
THEMES TO CONSIDER
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Faith based Valued morality/values
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Clear sense of identity
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Creativity/Inspiration
How do the poets express their relationship with inspiration? How would they describe creativity? •
Ordered Stable
! ! ! ! !
Chaos Unstable Loss of faith Loss of morality/values Confused sense of identity and place in world
Religion/God
How do the poets view God? What seems to be the role of religion in their poetry? Has religion been replaced by something? How is religion/God viewed differently by the Modernists than by the Victorians? •
How do the poets express the difficulties of communicating with others? What causes this struggle? •
How do the poets view nature? How is their relationship with nature different from that of the Romantics? •
Death/Memoriums
How do the poets view death? How do they grieve? How do they remember those who have passed or how do they themselves want to be remembered?
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MODERNISM IN ART & POETRY
Gallery 3.1 Modern Art
Cubist Pablo Picasso’s “Woman with a Flower” (1932)
Modern artists were often employing similar stylistic innovations that poets of the same period were using. Cubism, for example, was an art movement that attempted to dissect the subject in order to see the whole better and transcend the conventional limitations of perception. By reassembling the pieces into new patterns and not limiting the viewer to just one angle of vision, Cubists hoped to make us see the subject more truthfully. Futurism, similar to Cubism, also fragmented its subject and showed successive states of the same image, but for different reasons. Futurism sought to convey motion and to depict powerful emotions of tension or anguish. In the fast moving world that had recently been interested to motion pictures, Futurism attempted to capture a sense of movement and busyness that seemed to be invading the new Modern world. Cubist painters like Picasso also introduced realistic bits from the ordinary world such as a scrap of newspaper into their paintings. The effect this collage technique has on the viewer is one of surprise and shock--an everyday object has intruded on what was traditionally thought of as “Art”. Surrealism also sought to merge the ordinary with the fantastic and employed absurd dream like images. Surrealists such as Salvador Dali used the concept of a visual pun or double image in their work , which makes one image assume multiple identities.
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A Coat By W.B. Yeats
The Fascination of What’s Difficult By W.B. Yeats

I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it, For there's more enterprise In walking naked.
The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart. There's something ails our colt That must, as if it had not holy blood Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud, Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays That have to be set up in fifty ways, On the day's war with every knave and dolt, Theatre business, management of men. I swear before the dawn comes round again I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
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The Circus Animals' Desertion By W.B. Yeats I. I sought a theme and sought for it in vain, I sought it daily for six weeks or so. Maybe at last, being but a broken man, I must be satisfied with my heart, although Winter and summer till old age began My circus animals were all on show, Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot, Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.
And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea; Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said It was the dream itself enchanted me: Character isolated by a deed To engross the present and dominate memory. players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of. III. Those masterful images because complete Grew in pure mind, but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
II. What can I but enumerate old themes? First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams, Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose, Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems, That might adorn old songs or courtly shows; But what cared I that set him on to ride, I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride? And then a counter-truth filled out its play, 'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it; She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away, But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it. I thought my dear must her own soul destroy, So did fanaticism and hate enslave it, And this brought forth a dream and soon enough This dream itself had all my thought and love. 27
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock By T.S. Eliot Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, 28
Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?
And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.”
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?—
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. 29
It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.”
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
The Modernist Speaker. . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.
! Incoherent ! Lacks
clear sense of self ! Disconnected from others ! Comes from the margins of society ! Often expresses subjective responses and emotions rather than objective reality
I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. 30
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night By Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Sea Rose By H.D. Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf,
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
more precious than a wet rose single on a stem -you are caught in the drift.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Stunted, with small leaf, you are flung on the sand, you are lifted in the crisp sand that drives in the wind.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Can the spice-rose drip such acrid fragrance hardened in a leaf?
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray, Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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Prayer by H.D. White, O white face— from disenchanted days wither alike dark rose and fiery bays: no gift within our hands, nor strength to praise, only defeat and silence; though we lift hands, disenchanted, of small strength, nor raise branch of the laurel or the light of torch, but fold the garment on the riven locks, yet hear, all-merciful, and touch the fore-head, dim, unlit of pride and thought, Mistress–be near! Give back the glamour to our will, the thought; give back the tool, the chisel; once we wrought things not unworthy, sandal and steel-clasp; silver and steel, the coat with white leaf-pattern at the arm and throat: silver and metal, hammered for the ridge of shield and helmet-rim; white silver with the darker hammered in, belt, staff and magic spear-shaft with the gilt spark at the point and hilt.
Church Going By Phillip Larkin Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside, letting the door thud shut. Another church: matting, seats, and stone, And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff Up at the holy end; the small neat organ; And a tense, musty, unignorable silence, Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence. Move forward, run my hand around the font. From where I stand, the roof looks almost new Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't. Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce 'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant. The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence, Reflect the place was not worth stopping for. Yet stop I did: in fact I often do, And always end much at a loss like this, Wondering what to look for; wondering, too, When churches will fall completely out of use What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep A few cathedrals chronically on show, Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases, 32
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep. Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
It pleases me to stand in silence here; A serious house on serious earth it is, In whose blent air all our compulsions meet, Are recognized, and robed as destinies. And that much never can be obsolete, Since someone will forever be surprising A hunger in himself to be more serious, And gravitating with it to this ground, Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in, If only that so many dead lie round.
Or, after dark, will dubious women come To make their children touch a particular stone; Pick simples for a cancer; or on some Advised night see walking a dead one? Power of some sort will go on In games, in riddles, seemingly at random; But superstition, like belief, must die, And what remains when disbelief has gone? Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky, A shape less recognisable each week, A purpose more obscure. I wonder who Will be the last, the very last, to seek This place for what it was; one of the crew That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were? Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique, Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh? Or will he be my representative, Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt So long and equably what since is found Only in separation - marriage, and birth, And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built This special shell? For, though I've no idea What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth, 33
Talking In Bed By Philip Larkin
Places, Loved Ones By Philip Larkin
Talking in bed ought to be easiest, Lying together there goes back so far, An emblem of two people being honest. Yet more and more time passes silently. Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest Builds and disperses clouds in the sky, And dark towns heap up on the horizon. None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why At this unique distance from isolation It becomes still more difficult to find Words at once true and kind, Or not untrue and not unkind.
No, I have never found The place where I could say This is my proper ground, Here I shall stay; Nor met that special one Who has an instant claim On everything I own Down to my name; To find such seems to prove You want no choice in where To build, or whom to love; You ask them to bear You off irrevocably, So that it's not your fault Should the town turn dreary, The girl a dolt. Yet, having missed them, you're Bound, none the less, to act As if what you settled for Mashed you, in fact; And wiser to keep away From thinking you still might trace Uncalled-for to this day Your person, your place.
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