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The last line of the prepared address echoes the second and third lines of the poem. [2] [3] The same lines were also used in the lyrics of Pink Floyd's "The Gunner's Dream" (1983, on The Final Cut) [4] and Al Stewart's "Somewhere in England 1915" (2005, on A Beach Full of Shells). The poem is read in its entirety in films Oh!
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The poem is written as a set of seven rhyming couplets. What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies ...
The inspiration for the poem came from a walk Wordsworth took with his sister Dorothy around Glencoyne Bay, Ullswater, in the Lake District. [8] [4] He would draw on this to compose "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" in 1804, inspired by Dorothy's journal entry describing the walk near a lake at Grasmere in England: [8]
The title of Patrick Kavanagh's poem "On Looking into E. V. Rieu's Homer", about E. V. Rieu's Homer translations, is an allusion on the title of Keats's poem. In Saki 's story "The Talking-out of Tarrington", a character is greeted with a " 'silent-upon-a-peak-in-Darien' stare which denoted an absence of all previous acquaintance with the ...
"The Face upon the Barroom Floor", aka "The Face on the Floor" and "The Face on the Barroom Floor", is a poem originally written by the poet John Henry Titus in 1872.A later version was adapted from the Titus poem by Hugh Antoine d'Arcy in 1887 and first published in the New York Dispatch.
“The Second Coming” is a poem written by Irish poet William Butler Yeats in 1919, first printed in The Dial in November 1920 and included in his 1921 collection of verses Michael Robartes and the Dancer. [1] The poem uses Christian imagery regarding the Apocalypse and Second Coming to describe allegorically the atmosphere of post-war Europe ...
but my feet know, and my hands, and the skin about my bones, and the soft labouring of my lungs, and the hot, white, inwards turning anger of my eyes. Brash with glass, name flaring like a flag, it squats in the grass and weeds, incipient Port Jackson trees: new, up-market, haute cuisine, guard at the gatepost, whites only inn. No sign says it is: