Exercises on the Moods.
(a) Tell the mood of each verb in these sentences, and what special use it is of that mood:—
1. Wherever the standard of freedom and independence has been or shall be unfurled, there will her heart and her prayers be.
2. Mark thou this difference, child of earth! / While each performs his part, / Not all the lip can speak is worth / The silence of the heart.
3. Oh, that I might be admitted to thy presence! that mine were the supreme delight of knowing thy will!
4. ‘Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,One glance at their array!
5. Whatever inconvenience ensue, nothing is to be preferred before justice.
6.The vigorous sun would catch it up at eve / And use it for an anvil till he had filled / The shelves of heaven with burning thunderbolts.
7.Meet is it changes should control / Our being, lest we rust in ease.
8.Quoth she, / “The Devil take the goose, / And God forget the stranger!”
9. Think not that I speak for your sakes.
10. “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.
11. Were that a just return? Were that Roman magnanimity?
12. Well; how he may do his work, whether he do it right or wrong, or do it at all, is a point which no man in the world has taken the pains to think of.
13. He is, let him live where else he like, in what pomps and prosperities he like, no literary man.
14. Could we one day complete the immense figure which these flagrant points compose! Read More
“The Witch’s Life” by Anne Sexton
When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.
I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester’s.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch’s life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.
“The Motive for Metaphor”
You like it under the trees in autumn,
Because everything is half dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning.
In the same way, you were happy in spring,
With the half colors of quarter-things,
The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,
The single bird, the obscure moon–
The obscure moon lighting an obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed,
Where you yourself were not quite yourself,
And did not want nor have to be,
Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon,
The A B C of being,
The ruddy temper, the hammer
Of red and blue, the hard sound–
Steel against intimation–the sharp flash,
The vital, arrogant, fatal, dominant X.