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27. Farewell, O day misspent ;
The dying minutes pass.-Mackay.
28. Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea!
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to mc;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.—Tennyson.
29. Under my window, under my window,
All in the midsummer weather,
Three little girls with fluttering curls
Flit to and fro together:
There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Kate with her scarlet feather.-Westwood.
From weary chime to chime,
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
31. I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal,
And half conceal the Soul within.-- Tennyson.
32. Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
33. By the craggy hillside,
To dig up one in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
34. Alas! the joys that fortune brings
And those who prize the paltry things,
35. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
36. Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Oh, sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
37. Opinion governs all mankind,
Like the blind's leading of the blind.-Butler.
38. But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
39. The splendor falls on castle walls,
The long light shakes across the lakes,
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.— Tennyson.
40. Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man.
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
41. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the sea and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
Poetic Pauses. In addition to the pauses required by the sense, two suspensions of the voice-the final and the casural pause-belong to verse.
The final pause is a slight suspension of the voice at the end of each line, even when the grammatical sense does not require it.
The cæsural pause is a slight suspension of the voice within the line, and generally, though not always, about the middle of it. Long lines may have two or more cœsural pauses. In these lines the cæsura is marked (II): Soldier, rest! || thy warfare o'er.
Eternal sunshine || of the spotless mind.
Of all the Grecian woes, || O goddess, sing!
Lives through all life, || extends || through all extent,
Much of the harmony of our meters, and of iambic meters especially, depends on the skillful disposition of cæsural pauses. They often correspond, though not always, to pauses required by the sense. Skillful poets aim to construct their lines in such a way that the final and cæsural pauses shall fall where they are required by the meaning, or grammatical construction. The cæsural pause should never be placed so as to injure the sense.
In iambic meters, the most appropriate place for cæsural pauses is after the fourth, or after the sixth syllable. If the pause fall after the fourth syllable, the briskest melody is thereby produced, and the most spirited air given to the line. If the pause fall after the fifth syllable, the verse becomes more smooth, gentle, and flowing; if it follow the sixth syllable, the tenor of the music becomes solemn and grave; if it fall after the seventh syllable, which is the nearest place to the end of the line that it can occupy, the grave, solemn cadence becomes still more sensible.
Poetry may be defined as the product of an excited and a creative imagination, with a primary object to please, and expressed in the form of verse. The most artistic department of literature, it is near akin, in its effects, to music and painting. The poet is a creator-an artist-sensitive to impressions which do not affect ordinary natures; he gives to his fancies a delicacy of form, a warmth of coloring, and a richness of expression alien to prose, the common drudge between man and man."
Poetry does not confine itself to the language of common life. It selects words for their beauty of sound and association, for their picturesqueness, for their elevation-rare words often, words that are even obsolete in prose.
It uses the transposed order in a degree forbidden in conversation, unpardonable even in impassioned oratory. "Imperfect periods are frequent; elisions are perpetual; and many of the minor words, which would be deemed essential in prose, are dispensed with.
Poetry admits of a bold use of imagery. Herbert Spencer says: "Metaphors, similes, hyperboles, and personifications are the poet's colors, which he has liberty to employ almost without limit. We characterize as 'poetical' the prose which uses these appliances of language with any frequency; and condemn it as 'overflorid' or 'affected'