How to read and why（摘）
A.E. Housman A shrop-shire Lad
Into my hear an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
This artful simplicity conceals the depth, the reverberation, that helps define great poetry. Closely, because a true criterion for any good poem is that it will sustain a very close reading indeed.e
On his Seventy-fifth Birthday, Walter Savage Landor
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Wherever possible, memorize them. Since “if you memorize it, you may come to feel that you have written it, so universal is the poem’s proud longing.”
Tennyson – Ulysses (selected)
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
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
Rarely can poetry aid us in communing with others; that is a beautiful idealism, except at certain strange moments. While, it helps us to speak to ourselves more clearly and more fully, to overhear that speaking, than otherwise we could hope to find.
Emily Dickinson Poem 1260 （Selected）
Because that you are going
And never coming back
And I, however absolute
May overlook your Track——
Because that Death is final,
However first it be,
This instant be suspended
Above Mortality——
Significance that each has lived
This other to detect
Discovery not God himself
Could now annihilate
Eternity, Presumption
The instant I perceive
That you, who were Existence
Yourself forgot to live——
The "Life that is" will then have been
A thing I never knew
As Paradise fictitious
Until the Realm of you——
The "life that is to be," to me,
A residence too plain
Unless in my Redeemer's Face
I recognize your own——
Poetry: to startle us out of our sleep-of-death into a more capacious sense of life. At the best, does us a kind of violence that prose fiction rarely attempts or accomplishes.
Into my hear an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
This artful simplicity conceals the depth, the reverberation, that helps define great poetry. Closely, because a true criterion for any good poem is that it will sustain a very close reading indeed.e
On his Seventy-fifth Birthday, Walter Savage Landor
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Wherever possible, memorize them. Since “if you memorize it, you may come to feel that you have written it, so universal is the poem’s proud longing.”
Tennyson – Ulysses (selected)
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
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
Rarely can poetry aid us in communing with others; that is a beautiful idealism, except at certain strange moments. While, it helps us to speak to ourselves more clearly and more fully, to overhear that speaking, than otherwise we could hope to find.
Emily Dickinson Poem 1260 （Selected）
Because that you are going
And never coming back
And I, however absolute
May overlook your Track——
Because that Death is final,
However first it be,
This instant be suspended
Above Mortality——
Significance that each has lived
This other to detect
Discovery not God himself
Could now annihilate
Eternity, Presumption
The instant I perceive
That you, who were Existence
Yourself forgot to live——
The "Life that is" will then have been
A thing I never knew
As Paradise fictitious
Until the Realm of you——
The "life that is to be," to me,
A residence too plain
Unless in my Redeemer's Face
I recognize your own——
Poetry: to startle us out of our sleep-of-death into a more capacious sense of life. At the best, does us a kind of violence that prose fiction rarely attempts or accomplishes.
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