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Finals Review.doc

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Anne Higgins

Those Winter Sundays Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up earlyand put his clothes on in the blueblack coldthen with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze No one ever thanked him Id wake and hear the cold splintering breaking When the rooms were warm hed calland slowly I would rise and dressfearing the chronic angers of that houseSpeaking indifferently to himwho had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as wellWhat did I knowwhat did I know of loves austere and lonely officesNot Waving But DrowningStevie Smith Nobody heard him the dead manBut still he lay moaningI was much further out than you thoughtAnd not waving but drowningPoor chap he always loved larkingAnd now hes deadIt must have been too cold for him his heart gave wayThey saidOh no no no it was too cold alwaysStill the dead one lay moaningI was much too far out all my lifeAnd not waving but drowningLondonWilliam BlakeI wander thro each charterd streetNear where the charterd Thames does flowAnd mark in every face I meetMarks of weakness marks of woeIn every cry of every ManIn every Infants cry of fearIn every voice in every banThe mindforgd manacles I hearHow the Chimneysweepers cryEvery blackning Church appallsAnd the hapless Soldiers sighRuns in blood down Palace wallsBut most thro midnight streets I hearHow the youthful Harlots curseBlasts the newborn Infants tearAnd blights with plagues the Marriage hearseKC TrommerFirst Map Stone fences lined the road to the art academyin Lyme The teacher unscrolled the butcher paper on the floor told me to lie down I fanned my fingersand spread my legs as a boy drew my outline in markerThe ceiling was so far up the cement floor cold against my backand the smell of the room was the smellof drying acrylic I stood up from the paperandmy body was an outline inside the sneaker printsof the boy who had drawn me The teacher handed me a pensaid Now fill in the restRobert FrostThe Road Not TakenTwo roads diverged in a yellow woodAnd sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowthThen took the other as just as fairAnd having perhaps the better claimBecause it was grassy and wanted wearThough as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the sameAnd both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden blackOh I kept the first for another dayYet knowing how way leads on to wayI doubted if I should ever come backI shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages henceTwo roads diverged in a wood and II took the one less traveled byAnd that has made all the differenceShakespeareSonnet 73That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves or none or few do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the coldBare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sangIn me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the westWhich by and by black night doth take awayDeaths second self that seals up all in restIn me thou seest the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lieAs the deathbed whereon it must expireConsumed with that which it was nourishd byThis thou perceivst which makes thy love more strongTo love that well which thou must leave ere longWilliam Butler YeatsThe Wild Swans at Coole The trees are in their autumn beautyThe woodland paths are dryUnder the October twilight the waterMirrors a still skyUpon the brimming water among the stonesAre nineandfifty swansThe nineteenth autumn has come upon meSince I first made my countI saw before I had well finishedAll suddenly mount
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