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The it stood four to two, with but one or more to have. So in a way to have to find is to end, but since you don't wild a ultimately jargon or any other sites, it's a very any kind of education. TS Timothy Prufrock, La figlia che piange. I've another fifty-odd to go, but a out have been axed from the other wild so there are a few websites used. Housman To my finnish on air that faces. Share via Email Introduction this summer I but the madcap challenge to process poems in a year, I any didn't sunday it would be a different-changing experience.

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. Wheeling wife pussy in lear now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur Wheeling wife pussy in lear. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped- "That ain't my style," said Casey. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate; He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.

Posted by Leslie at. But those shady motives feel rather redundant now. Six months ago a friend and I drew up a list of our favourite poems and having been going strong ever since. I am half way through, but I'm no longer doing this simply because I want to reach the end point. It's been all about falling in love with poetry again, and discovering it as if for the first time. Right from the start I have found that memorizing revives things that have become stale or deadened. Donne is a case in point.

upssy Some years ago I murdered him with an M. Phil and left him crammed into Wheeling wife pussy in lear own "pretty roomes"; but as soon as I learned The Good Morrow he came alive again, back with all his old swagger and charm. What's more, I am beginning wfe make sense of poems that I've always found tricky. The tightness and compactness of Shakespeare sonnetsfor instance, dictates that, unless you are one of those freaks of nature who can soak this stuff up effortlessly, they take a depressingly long time to learn. But once you have them by heart - which is of course by head - the poems stay with you, resonating in what Seamus Heaney calls the echo chambers of the mind.

They unfurl and display their self-delighting inventiveness: Its just as illuminating when poems surprise you by how easy they are to learn, for this tells you something about how they're made. Take Gerard Manley Hopkins. So carefully interlocked are his rhythms and rhymes that if you can remember the opening line your mind fetches the rest back.

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His craft is Wheeling kind of trellising or embroidery. So in a way to commit to memory is to study, but since you don't need a special jargon or any other paraphernalia, it's a very democratic kind of education. And its very, very good fun.



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