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ReadingWillow structured literacy program for Australian students
Poetry Library

— Stephen Crane

I stood upon a high place,

And saw, below, many devils

Running, leaping,

And carousing in sin.

…

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adjective

Engaged in or ready for action; characterized by energetic work, thought, or speech.

“The students were very active in class discussions, asking many thoughtful questions.”

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III. WINTER.

56 lines
Coventry Patmore·1823–1896
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, singularly movedTo love the lovely that are not beloved,Of all the Seasons, mostLove Winter, and to traceThe sense of the Trophonian pallor on her face.It is not death, but plenitude of peace;And the dim cloud that does the world enfoldHath less the characters of dark and coldThan warmth and light asleep,And correspondent breathing seems to keepWith the infant harvest, breathing soft belowIts eider coverlet of snow.Nor is in field or garden anythingBut, duly look'd into, contains sereneThe substance of things hoped for, in the Spring,And evidence of Summer not yet seen.On every chance-mild dayThat visits the moist shaw,The honeysuckle, 'sdaining to be crostIn urgence of sweet life by sleet or frost,'Voids the time's lawWith still increaseOf leaflet new, and little, wandering spray;Often, in sheltering brakes,As one from rest disturb'd in the first hour,Primrose or violet bewilder'd wakes,And deems 'tis time to flower;Though not a whisper of her voice he hear,The buried bulb does knowThe signals of the year,And hails far Summer with his lifted spear.The gorse-field dark, by sudden, gold caprice,Turns, here and there, into a Jason's fleece;Lilies, that soon in Autumn slipp'd their gowns of green,And vanish'd into earth,And came again, ere Autumn died, to birth,Stand full-array'd, amidst the wavering shower,And perfect for the Summer, less the flower;In nook of pale or crevice of crude bark,Thou canst not miss,If close thou spy, to markThe ghostly chrysalis,That, if thou touch it, stirs in its dream dark;And the flush'd Robin, in the evenings hoar,Does of Love's Day, as if he saw it, sing;But sweeter yet than dream or song of Summer or SpringAre Winter's sometime smiles, that seem to wellFrom infancy ineffable;Her wandering, languorous gaze,So unfamiliar, so without amaze,On the elemental, chill adversity,The uncomprehended rudeness; and her sighAnd solemn, gathering tear,And look of exile from some great repose, the sphereOf ether, moved by ether only, orBy something still more tranquil.
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