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I had a little nut tree, Nothing would it bear, But a silver nutmeg And a golden pear. The King of Spain's daughter Came to visit me, And all for the sake Of my little nut tree. Her dress was made of crimson, Jet black was her hair, She asked me for my nutmeg And my golden pear. I said, "So fair a princess Never did I see, I'll give you all the ...
Describing the way in which he modeled the structure of the poem on Dante, Heaney calls it "the three-part Dantean journey scaled down into the three-day station, no hell, no paradise, just 'Patrick's Purgatory.'" [6] This is evident from the start of the first chapter. During his pilgrimage Heaney, the protagonist of the poem, encounters ...
In this more leisurely work of 182 lines, as well as Aesop's fable of the nut tree being the subject, there is a glance at another concerning The Travellers and the Plane Tree. While the fruit tree is treated with no respect, 'barren plane trees have more honour for the shade they provide' (at postquam platanis sterilem praebentibus umbram ...
In other (presumably more modern) versions of the story, Knecht Ruprecht gives naughty children gifts such as lumps of coal, sticks, and stones, while well-behaving children receive sweets from Saint Nicholas. He also can be known to give naughty children a switch (stick) in their shoes instead of candy, fruit and nuts, in the German tradition.
Because they weren't published in print until the tail end of the 16th century, the origins of the fairy tales we know today are misty. That identical motifs — a spinner's wheel, a looming tower, a seductive enchantress — cropped up in Italy, France, Germany, Asia and the pre-Colonial Americas allowed warring theories to spawn.
The tree of life my soul hath seen, Laden with fruit and always green; The trees of nature fruitless be, Compared with Christ the Apple Tree. His beauty doth all things excel, By faith I know but ne'er can tell The glory which I now can see, In Jesus Christ the Appletree. For happiness I long have sought, And pleasure dearly I have bought;
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As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown— A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds. * A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,