QUIETUSEdited by Lauren Dotson

Ms. WheelerEnglish Comp II23 March 2015

Dotson 2

Table of Contents

Introduction………………………………………………………………………………………………...page 3

Sonnet LXXIV, William Shakespeare………………………………………………...………....…page 4

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost………………………………page 5

Because I Could Not Stop for Death, by Emily Dickenson………………………………..page 6

Mad Girl’s Love Song, by Sylvia Plath…………………………………………………………….page 7

Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath………………………………………………………………………..page 8

The Lady of Shalott, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson…………………………………………….page 11

Ode to the Confederate Dead, by Allen Tate…………………………………………………page 16

Lycidas, by John Milton………………………………………………………………………………page 19

Written Responses to Each Poem………………………………………………………………..page 24

Visual Representation………………………………………………………………………………...page 29

Works Cited…………………………………………………………………………………………….....page 30

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Introduction from the Editor

Poetry has always been one of my passions. When I was a child, my parents

bought be a collection of famous poems by English writers. Among the various

works of William Wordsworth, John Keats, and Robert Browning, there was one

singular poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. “The Lady of Shalott” was my favorite

poem during my childhood, and stills hold my attention to this day. There was sort

of strange magic that enraptured me when I first read it all those years ago. In

particular, the way the author phrased The Lady dying sent chills down my spine- in

a good way.

Any can write about love, but a poet is talented if they can say something new

about it. The same is true for death and dying. Death is personified, symbolized,

defied, embraced, a fact of life, and something entirely spiritual. Death is both a good

friend greeting poets with open arms and a ghastly stranger that has to drag them

screaming.

Many of these poems are personal favorites, as well as the authors

themselves. Only choosing two of Sylvia Plath’s poems was a struggle. The vast

majority of these are considered classics as well. However, highlighting the

differences between each author’s opinion of death, Death (capitalization noted),

and dying can be a rewarding experience. After all, it is the promise that life will one

day cease that makes everyday count.

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Sonnet LXXIV William Shakespeare

But be contented when that fell arrestWithout all bail shall carry me away,My life hath in this line some interest,Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.When thou reviewest this, thou dost reviewThe very part was consecrate to thee:The earth can have but earth, which is his due;My spirit is thine, the better part of me:So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,The prey of worms, my body being dead;The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,Too base of thee to be remembered.   The worth of that is that which it contains,   And that is this, and this with thee remains.

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningRobert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.   His house is in the village though;   He will not see me stopping here   To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   To stop without a farmhouse near   Between the woods and frozen lake   The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   To ask if there is some mistake.   The only other sound’s the sweep   Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   But I have promises to keep,   And miles to go before I sleep,   And miles to go before I sleep.

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Because I Could Not Stop For DeathEmily Dickenson

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 hasteAnd I had put awayMy labor and my leisure too,For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children stroveAt Recess – in the Ring –  We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –  We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemedA Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yetFeels shorter than the DayI first surmised the Horses’ Heads Were toward Eternity – 

Mad Girl’s Love SongSylvia Plath

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Lady LazarusSylvia Plath

I have done it again.One year in every tenI manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skinBright as a Nazi lampshade,My right foot

A paperweight,My face a featureless, fineJew linen.

Peel off the napkinO my enemy.Do I terrify?--

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The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?The sour breathWill vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the fleshThe grave cave ate will beAt home on me

And I a smiling woman.I am only thirty.And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.What a trashTo annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.The peanut-crunching crowdShoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--The big strip tease.Gentlemen, ladies

These are my handsMy knees.I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.The first time it happened I was ten.It was an accident.

The second time I meantTo last it out and not come back at all.I rocked shut

As a seashell.They had to call and callAnd pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

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DyingIs an art, like everything else.I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad dayTo the same place, the same face, the same bruteAmused shout:

‘A miracle!'That knocks me out.There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a chargeFor the hearing of my heart--It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large chargeFor a word or a touchOr a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.So, so, Herr Doktor.So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,I am your valuable,The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.I turn and burn.Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

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Ash, ash--You poke and stir.Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap, A wedding ring,A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr LuciferBewareBeware.

Out of the ashI rise with my red hairAnd I eat men like air.

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The Lady of ShalottAlfred, Lord Tennyson

Part I.

On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro' the field the road runs by           To many-tower'd Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,           The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro' the wave that runs for everBy the island in the river           Flowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowers           The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'dSlide the heavy barges trail'dBy slow horses; and unhail'dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail'd           Skimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,           The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,           Down to tower'd Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy           Lady of Shalott."

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Part II.

There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stay           To look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,           The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway near           Winding down to Camelot:There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girls,           Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,           Goes by to tower'd Camelot;And sometimes thro' the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,           The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror's magic sights,For often thro' the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights           And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;"I am half-sick of shadows," said           The Lady of Shalott.

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Part III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greaves           Of bold Sir Lancelot.A redcross knight for ever kneel'dTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,           Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle-bells rang merrily           As he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazon'd baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armour rung,           Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn'd like one burning flame together,           As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro' the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,           Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow'dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,           As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash'd into the crystal mirror,"Tirra lirra," by the river           Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro' the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,

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She saw the helmet and the plume,           She look'd down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack'd from side to side;"The curse is come upon me," cried           The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale-yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky raining           Over tower'd Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wrote           The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse –Like some bold seër in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance –With a glassy countenance           Did she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,           The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right –The leaves upon her falling light –Thro' the noises of the night           She floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,           The Lady of Shalott.

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Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darken'd wholly,           Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;For ere she reach'd upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,           The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,A corse between the houses high,           Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,           The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross'd themselves for fear,           All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, "She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,           The Lady of Shalott."

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Ode to the Confederate DeadAllen Tate

Row after row with strict impunityThe headstones yield their names to the element,The wind whirrs without recollection;In the riven troughs the splayed leavesPile up, of nature the casual sacramentTo the seasonal eternity of death;Then driven by the fierce scrutinyOf heaven to their election in the vast breath,They sough the rumour of mortality.

Autumn is desolation in the plotOf a thousand acres where these memories growFrom the inexhaustible bodies that are not Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.Think of the autumns that have come and gone!--Ambitious November with the humors of the year,With a particular zeal for every slab,Staining the uncomfortable angels that rotOn the slabs, a wing chipped here, an arm there:The brute curiosity of an angel’s stareTurns you, like them, to stone,Transforms the heaving airTill plunged to a heavier world belowYou shift your sea-space blindlyHeaving, turning like the blind crab.

Dazed by the wind, only the wind The leaves flying, plunge

You know who have waited by the wallThe twilight certainty of an animal,Those midnight restitutions of the bloodYou know--the immitigable pines, the smoky friezeOf the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,The cold pool left by the mounting flood,Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.You who have waited for the angry resolutionOf those desires that should be yours tomorrow,You know the unimportant shrift of death

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And praise the visionAnd praise the arrogant circumstanceOf those who fallRank upon rank, hurried beyond decision--Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.

Seeing, seeing only the leaves Flying, plunge and expire

Turn your eyes to the immoderate past,Turn to the inscrutable infantry risingDemons out of the earth they will not last.Stonewall, Stonewall, and the sunken fields of hemp,Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run.Lost in that orient of the thick and fastYou will curse the setting sun.

Cursing only the leaves crying Like an old man in a storm

You hear the shout, the crazy hemlocks pointWith troubled fingers to the silence whichSmothers you, a mummy, in time.

The hound bitchToothless and dying, in a musty cellarHears the wind only. Now that the salt of their bloodStiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea,Seals the malignant purity of the flood,What shall we who count our days and bowOur heads with a commemorial woeIn the ribboned coats of grim felicity,What shall we say of the bones, unclean,Whose verdurous anonymity will grow?The ragged arms, the ragged heads and eyesLost in these acres of the insane green?The gray lean spiders come, they come and go;In a tangle of willows without lightThe singular screech-owl’s tightInvisible lyric seeds the mind

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With the furious murmur of their chivalry.

We shall say only the leaves Flying, plunge and expire

We shall say only the leaves whisperingIn the improbable mist of nightfallThat flies on multiple wing:Night is the beginning and the endAnd in between the ends of distractionWaits mute speculation, the patient curseThat stones the eyes, or like the jaguar leapsFor his own image in a jungle pool, his victim.

What shall we say who have knowledge Carried to the heart? Shall we take the actTo the grave? Shall we, more hopeful, set up the graveIn the house? The ravenous grave?

Leave nowThe shut gate and the decomposing wall:The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush, Riots with his tongue through the hush--Sentinel of the grave who counts us all!

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LycidasJohn Milton

Yet once more, O ye laurels and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn, And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright, Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. But O! the heavy change now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows, and the hazel copses green,

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Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me, I fondly dream! Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse, Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glist'ring foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood; But now my oat proceeds,

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And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea. He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. "Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake. Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said; But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast

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Their bells and flowrets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears. Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold. Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth; And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move,

Dotson 23

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropped into the western bay. At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

Dotson 24

Responses to Each Poem:

Sonnet LXXIV:

William Shakespeare’s Sonnet LXXIV is a sonnet. The speaker is telling

someone, possibly a lover or friend, not to be upset when he dies. He will survive

through his words, like this poem itself. As long as the recipient remembers his

spirit, then the only thing death will take is his body, which isn’t worth mourning.

Shakespeare uses figurative language by personifying the earth, saying that his body

is the earth’s “due.” The tone of the poem is positive, although his description of his

body’s demise is gruesome.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Day:

At first glance, Robert Frost’s lyric poem is out of place in this collection. It

may seem a straightforward piece about nature, but there is a darker undercurrent.

On the surface, it is a poem about wanting to stop in the woods, but moving on from

that want because the speaker has someplace to be (“promises to keep”). Many have

interpreted the poem as being about death, suicide in particular. The speaker wants

to stop living, because death seems like a release. He decides not to, because he has

something to live for (the promises). The tone and mood of the poem can be

interpreted differently as well. Describing the woods as “dark” does not necessary

imply that they are bad. By using an extended metaphor with the implication of the

woods being death or some form of afterlife, Frost weaves a complex narrative.

Dotson 25

Because I Could Not Stop for Death:

Emily Dickenson’s “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” is a unique elegy.

Instead of mourning a friend, the speaker has passed (centuries ago, as the twist line

towards the end reveals) and is greeted by Death- who is the perfect gentleman.

Dickenson uses personification to show a person that is embracing dying. Because of

the personification, the poem has a bouncy tone and lighthearted mood, with the

relationship between the speaker and Death resembling courtship.

Mad Girl’s Love Song:

The villanelle in this collection is Sylvia Plath’s “Mad Girl’s Love Song.” The

poem is about a person who is either driven mad by love or is already mentally

unstable and dreamed up their lover. The speaker uses personification of stars to

make a comparison between them and her lover. The stars “waltz” out of her life in

the same way her lover did. Death is shown in the poem every time the speaker

shuts her eyes; there is no point in life without the person she loves. The tone of the

poem is melancholy and schizophrenic. The speaker is simultaneously sadden over

her past love and delirious over them. The repetition of the lines “I shut my eyes and

all the world drops dead;/ (I think I made you up in my head)” is traditional to the

villanelle style of poem, but is used to great affect to show the speaker’s obsession.

Dotson 26

Lady Lazarus:

This poem is a dramatic monologue from the viewpoint of a woman who

cannot die. The woman recants to the reader about who she cannot stay dead; the

first time she died, she was ten and it was an accident. The next time, she tried to

commit suicide. She has just died for the third time. Swearing that the fourth time

will be the last, she resolves to take charge over those who would keep bringing her

back. The poem has several metaphors and a ton of symbolism in it. Lady Lazarus

compares those that oppress her to Nazis and herself to the Jewish people. This is to

easily show the reader that Lady Lazarus is being oppressed in some way. Later,

Lady Lazarus says, “I am your opus/ I am your valuable/ The pure gold baby.” This

is both a metaphor and an ironic statement. The Nazis did not care what happened

to the Jewish people and the doctors do not care what happens to her, even though

they consider her “valuable.” The mood is this poem is very dark, especially at first.

The talk of death and wanting to die is can be hard to read, as is the latter mention of

“a cake of soap” (the Nazis would make soap out of the dead bodies of concentration

camp prisoners). However, the power has rising action. In the beginning, the

speaker is powerless. By the end, she warning both God and Lucifer to watch out-

she’s in charge now.

Dotson 27

The Lady of Shalott:

This poem is a ballad about the titular Lady of Shalott. Based on the legend of

Elaine of Astolat, this poem is about a young woman who has to continually weave

and not look at the outside world from her tower. Seeing a group of knights pass by

outside, she looks outside and stops her weaving, and is therefor cursed. Discarding

her loom, she travels outside and drifts down a river in a boat. The group of knights

find her body and comment on how lovely she looks. Tennyson uses several types of

figurative language in his poems, the most prominent of which is personification.

“The broad stream in his banks complaining” shows a stream complaining, which is

an entirely human quality. “Willows whiten, aspens quiver, / Little breezes dusk and

shiver” are other lines that show aspects of nature behaving like humans. All of his

personification of nature adds to the tone in the poem, which is somber and

mystical. “The Lady of Shalott” reads like a fairy-tale: full of magic, warning, and

true love slightly missed.

Ode to the Confederate Dead:

In this ode, a man traveling in the South comes upon a cemetery full of

Confederate soldiers. He mourns the loss of life and contemplates his own morality.

The poem makes use of ironic statements to show that the narrator is afraid of

death. The most obvious example of this is in the lines “Autumn is desolation in the

plot/ Of a thousand acres where these memories grow/ From the inexhaustible

bodies that are not/ Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.” He wants to deny

that men he considers heroes could be taken so easily; after all, if they’re dead, what

Dotson 28

hope has he? The tone is formal, but the narrator’s own stream on consciousness

can get dark at points.

Lycidas:

The final poem in this collection is a pastoral poem. This poem is about the

narrator lamenting his dead friend Lycidas. Both were shepherds together, as well

as men of god. In between his laments, the speaker demands to know what higher

power/ mystical being would let a good man die. At the end of the poem, the

speaker realizes that Lycidas is dead and blaming others won’t bring him back, but

Lycidas is reborn in heaven. One of the techniques Milton uses to show the speaker’s

despair is by having him ask the waves and winds why Lycidas had to die, but “The

knew not his story.” The tone and mood of the poem is melancholy, although the

ending is hopeful.

Dotson 29

Visual Representation:

This is supposed to be “Mad Girl’s Love Song.” There is a slightly creepy girl with her

eyes closed, blue and red star background with plenty of black, and a sihouette of a

lover.

Dotson 30

Works Cited

Dickenson, Emily. "Because I Could Not Stop for Death." Poets.org. Academy of

American Poets, n.d. Web. 16 Mar. 2015.

Frost, Robert. "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." Poetry Foundation. Poetry

Foundation, n.d. Web. 25 Feb. 2015.

Milton, John. "Lycidas." The John Milton Reading Room. Dartmouth College, n.d. Web.

23 Mar. 2015.

Plath, Sylvia. "Lady Lazarus." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets, n.d. Web. 23

Mar. 2015.

Plath, Sylvia. "Mad Girl's Love Song." Neurotic Poets. N.p., n.d. Web. 22 Mar. 2015.

Shakespeare, William. "Sonnet LXXIV." Shakespeare Online. Massachusetts Institute

of Technology, n.d. Web. 23 Mar. 2015.

Tate, Allen. "Ode to the Confederate Dead." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets,

n.d. Web. 23 Mar. 2015.

Tennyson, Alfred. "The Lady of Shalott (1842 Version)." Robbins Library Digital

Projects. University of Rochester, n.d. Web. 23 Mar. 2015.