Comic Sylvia Plath was an American poet and author. Showing a talent for poetry at a young age she had a poem published when she was 8Plath earned a scholarship to Smith College, where she wrote hundreds of poems and had her work published in national magazines. Although she seemed to have the world at her feet, Plath had suffered from severe depression since she was a child and received electroshock therapy after a failed suicide attempt in her early 20s. After her recovery and eventual graduation from Smith, Plath won a Fullbright scholarship to attend Cambridge University.
Et militavi non sine glori" Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But today, Today we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got.
The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb.
And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easily If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger. And this you can see is the bolt.
The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: Henry Reed is likely to be remembered by this poem alone, but fortunately for him and for us it is so magnificent that it should make him immortal. Oh my luve is like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile! Robert Burns was one of the early romantics perhaps a forerunner of both Shelley and Clareand one of my early favorites along with Blake and Housman.
He still reads well today, I think. He is, of course, most famous for his nostalgic drinking song "Auld Lang Syne.
Song When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.
Christina Rossetti wrote a handful of immortal poems, and that makes her an immortal poet. Two of her poems can be found on the Masters page of The HyperTexts. And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head And he smote upon the door again a second time; 'Is there anybody there?
But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head: Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.
This is a wonderfully haunting poem that should make its author immortal. On the Eve of His Execution by Chidiock Tichborne My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my good is but vain hope of gain; The day is past, and yet I saw no sun, And now I live, and now my life is done.
My tale was heard and yet it was not told, My fruit is fallen, yet my leaves are green, My youth is spent and yet I am not old, I saw the world and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut and yet it is not spun, And now I live and now my life is done.The Bell Jar is the only novel written by the poet Sylvia Plath.
Published one month before Plath killed herself at age 30, the story follows a young woman, Esther Greenwood, through a mental. From a general summary to chapter summaries to explanations of famous quotes, the SparkNotes The Bell Jar Study Guide has everything you need to ace quizzes, tests, and essays.
Sylvia Plath was born in in Massachusetts. Her books include the poetry collections The Colossus, Crossing the Water, Winter Trees, Ariel, and Collected Poems, which won the Pulitzer Prize.A complete and uncut facsimile edition of Ariel was published in with her original selection and arrangement of poems.
She was married to the poet Ted Hughes, with whom she had a daughter, Frieda. The Bell Jar (Modern Classics) [Sylvia Plath] Start reading The Bell Jar: A Novel on your Kindle in under a minute. perfect things in the world exist around you, and the fear you can never feel the way you used to again.
And I think the authenticity combined with Plath's stellar language (you can't take the poetry out of the poet) makes /5(K). The Bell Jar is the only novel written by the American writer and poet Sylvia Plath.
Originally published under the pseudonym "Victoria Lucas" in , the novel is semi-autobiographical, with the names of places and people changed. Sylvia Plath's shocking, realistic, and intensely emotional novel about a woman falling into the grip of insanity. Esther Greenwood is brilliant, beautiful, enormously talented, and successful, but slowly going under—maybe for the last time.