2018-03-09
174
The excerpt I am dealing with is taken from…
The text under consideration is a fragment from…
The text I am going to comment on is a story by…
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The plot of the story is concerned with…
The subject matter of the passage is…
The story tells of…
The story gives a deep insight into…
The story shows the drama of…
The story depicts…
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The action takes place in…
The scene is set in …
The setting for the story is…
The main characters are…
The plot is very simple…
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The story is told in the first/third person…
This is a first/third person narration…
The narrative is in the first/third person…
It is a description/ an account of
The story opens with…
This part of the text is written in the form of a description blended with dialogue…
The description of the … is not only the background of…
The narration is interwoven / interlaced with the…
This episode presents…
This scene is dramatic/impressive/humorous…
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The usage of colloquial English /archaic words/create (…), humorous effect.
The choice of epithets reveals the author’s …attitude to the character.
The image of a cat crouching under the table suggests…
This mood is conveyed by…
This effect is created by …
These details underline…
Texts
Poems to analyze
| Fairy Story I went into the wood one day And there I walked and lost my way When it was so dark I could not see A little creature came to me He said if I would sing a song The time would not be very long But first I must let him hold my hand tight Or else the wood would give me a fright I sang a song, he let me go But now I am home again there is nobody I know. Stevie Smith | Bird Talk Think said the Robin. Think said the Jay, sitting in the garden, talking one day. Think about people the way they grow: they don’t have feathers at all, you know. They don’t eat beetles, they don’t grow wings, they don’t like sitting on wires and things.Ф Think! said the Robin. Think! said the Jay. Aren’t people funny to be that way? Aileen Fisher |
| If I can stop one Heart from breaking I shall not live in vain If I can ease one Life the Aching Or cool one Pain Or help one fainting Robin Unto his Nest again I shall not live in Vain. Emily Dickinson | The Swallow Swallow, swallow, swooping free, Do you not remember me? I think last spring that it was you Who tumbled down the sooty flue With wobbly wings and gaping face, A fledgling in the fireplace. Remember how I nursed and fed you, And then into the air I sped you? How I wish that you would try To take me with you as you fly. Ogden Nash |
| The Brook Grumbling, stumbling, Fumbling all the day; Fluttering, stuttering,Muttering away; Rustling, hustling, Bustling as it flows That is how the brook talks, Bubbling as it goes. Alfred Tennyson | Pretty Halcyon Days How pleasant to sit on the beach, On the beach, on the sand, in the sun, With ocean galore within reach, And nothing at all to be done! No letters to answer, No bills to be burned, No work to be shirked, No cash to be earned. |
| Snow-flakes Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent and soft and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 Ц 1882) | Fairy Tale He built himself a house his foundations, his stones, his walls, his roof overhead, his chimney and smoke, his view from the window. He made himself a garden, his fence, his thyme, his earthworm, his evening dew. He cut put his bit of sky above. And he wrapped the garden in the sky and the house in the garden and packed the lot in a handkerchief and went off lone as an arctic fox through the cold Unending rain into the world. Miroslav Holub |
| No more pencils, no more books, No more teachers ugly looks, No more things that bring us sorrow Cos we won’t be here tomorrow. Hurray, hurray, Its the last day, Tear up your books, burn your pens, This is the day the term ends. Kick up tables, kick up chairs, Throw out homework down the stairs. | Hurt No Living Thing Hurt no living thing; Ladybird, nor butterfly, Nor moth with dusty wing, Nor cricket chirping cheerily, Nor grasshopper so light of leap, Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat, Nor harmless worms that creep. Christina Rossetti |
| Afternoon in February The day is ending, The night is descending; The march is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. W. Blake | How Do You Know ItТs Spring? How do you know it is Spring? And how do you know it is Fall? Suppose your eyes were always shut And you couldn’t see at all, Could you smell and hear the Spring? And could you feel the Fall? Margaret Wise Brown |
| October The month is amber, Gold, and brown. Blue ghosts of smoke Float through the town. Great VТs of geese Honk overhead, And maples turn A fiery red. Frost bites the lawn. The stars are slits In a black catТs eye Before she spits. At last, small witches, Goblins, hags, And pirates armed With paper bags, Their costumes hinged On safety pins, Go haunt a night Of pumpkin grins. John Updike | Wind on the Hill No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind came from, Where the wind goes. ItТs flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldnТt keep up with it, Not if I ran. But if I stopped holding The string of my kite, It would blow with the wind For a day and a night. And then when I found it, Wherever it blew, I should know that the wind Had been going there too. A. Milne |
| Where Go the Boats? Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along for ever, With trees on either hand. Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating Where will all come home? On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill. Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore. R.L. Stevenson | The Fly Little Fly, Thy summers play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance, And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death; Then am I A happy fly If I live Or if I die. W. Blake |
| If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb. If I couldn't thank you, Being fast asleep, You will know I'm trying With my Granite lip! E. Dickinson | FIRE AND ICE Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. R. Frost |
| A PRAYER IN SPRING Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simple in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees, The swarm dilating round the perfect trees. And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard, The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill, And off a blossom in mid-air stands still. For this is love and nothing else is love, The which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends He will, But which it only needs that we fulfill. Robert Frost | Mirror I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles'. I have looked at it so long I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. Sylvia Platn |
| Because I Could not Stop for Death Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just Ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess Ц in the Ring We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain We passed the Setting Sun Or rather Ц He passed Us The Dews drew quivering and chill For only Gossamer, my Gown My tippet Ц only Tulle We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground The Roof was scarcely visible The Cornice Ц in the Ground Since then Ц 'tis Centuries Ц and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity EMILY DICKINSON | I envy Seas, whereon He rides I envy Spokes of Wheels Of Chariots, that Him convey I envy Crooked Hills That gaze upon His journey How easy All can see What is forbidden utterly As Heaven Ц unto me! I envy Nests of Sparrows That dot His distant Eaves The wealthy Fly, upon His Pane The happy Ц happy Leaves That just abroad His Window Have Summer's leave to play The Ear Rings of Pizarro Could not obtain for me I envy Light Ц that wakes Him And Bells Ц that boldly ring To tell Him it is Noon, abroad Myself Ц be Noon to Him EMILY DICKINSON |
| The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some pert Of a day I had rued. Robert Frost | Metaphors I'm a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils ќ red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty' rising. Money new-minted in this fat purse. I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf. I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off. Sylvia Plath |
Stories to analyze
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