November 2011


Poems from Dead Poets Society

“A list of poems from Dead Poets Society

http://www.branford.k12.ct.us/user/site/staff/cmiller/docs/dpspoems.htm

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

209. To the Virgins

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,

The higher he’s a-getting

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;

And while ye may, go marry:

For having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

193. O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Ulysses – Alfred Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink

Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy’d

Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known,– cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honor’d of them all,–

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!

As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains; but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,–

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill

This labor, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me,–

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads,– you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.

Death closes all; but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.

‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,–

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day?

William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometimes declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788–1824

600. She walks in Beauty

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that ‘s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow’d to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair’d the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

PUCK

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber’d here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

if you pardon, we will mend:

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue,

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call;

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Chris Bounds
Assistant Principal – Learning & Teaching
Chevalier College
Tel: 02 4861 0572 | Mobile: 0422 389859
PO Box 243 BOWRAL 2576 NSW
The Domain’ blog: https://cbdomain.wordpress.com/

“Who Wrote Shakespeare?” : The New Yorker.

Really good article and worth a careful read. Great to see Liam Dunphy getting some airtime: a great teacher and former colleague with whom Mark S is in contact. Very wise words.


For today’s learners, it just clicks
Get connected: connectedclassrooms.wordpress.com twitter.com/gregwhitby twitter.com/benpaddlejones twitter.com/liamdunphy bit.ly/dernsw-sites
The Sydney Morning Herald
14 Nov 2011

At the start of this year, 7000 school students in Miami took a maths course delivered entirely by computer. Instead of a teacher, the only adult in the room was a â€�â€�facilitator’’ who dealt with technical problems and ensured students remained on…read more…

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The pen’s no longer mightier but still important
Rachel Olding
The Sydney Morning Herald
14 Nov 2011

WITH smartboards, wireless internet, noodles and wikis, classrooms have become seedbeds for technological advancements. But Year 12 students are finding the incursion of technology into school life isn’t all about convenience. In the HSC exams which…read more…

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So true: thank you Adele Horan.


Society the loser in education gap
ADELE HORIN
The Sydney Morning Herald
12 Nov 2011

The Myschool website was bitterly opposed by teacher unions, some parent organisations, and educationalists afraid it would lead to the creation of school leagues tables and further undermine public education. But the site is proving to be a powerful…read more…

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Done to death by slanderous tongue
John Bell is artistic director of Bell Shakespeare.
The Sydney Morning Herald
11 Nov 2011

With the release of his film Anonymous, director Roland Emmerich rolls out the hoary old chestnut that someone other than William Shakespeare wrote his plays, and he trots out the usual hoary old arguments that are based on snobbery and betray a woeful…read more…

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Brontëmania: Why the three sisters are bigger than ever – Features – Books – The Independent.

Charlotte Brontë detested Jane Austen. Hyperbole? Listen to the words of the author of Jane Eyre, writing to GH Lewes, the free-thinking editor and author who became George Eliot’s partner. In 1848 – after the novel’s publication had brought “Currer Bell” (Charlotte’s pseudonym) notoriety among the London literati – Lewes advised her to read Pride and Prejudice. “Why do you like Miss Austen so much?” Charlotte – “puzzled” – replies. “I got the book and studied it. And what did I find? An accurate daguerrotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully fenced, highly cultivated garden with neat borders and delicate flowers,” with “no open country – no fresh air – no blue hill – no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen in their elegant but confined houses.”

Lewes allows that “Miss Austen is not a poetess, has no ‘sentiment'” – or, as Austen might put it, “sensibility”. Charlotte, enraged, responds: “Can there be a great artist without poetry?” She contrasts Austen’s prissy decorum with the “deep feeling for his kind” that in her eyes enriches and validates the satire of William Makepeace Thackeray, who had championed Jane Eyre to the extent that London gossip assumed “Currer Bell” had been his governess and mistress.

 

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