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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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V. FROM MRS. GRAHAM.

64 lines
Coventry Patmore·1823–1896
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our love lacks joy, your letter says.Yes; love requires the focal spaceOf recollection or of hope,E'er it can measure its own scope.Too soon, too soon comes Death to showWe love more deeply than we know!The rain, that fell upon the heightToo gently to be call'd delight,Within the dark vale reappearsAs a wild cataract of tears;And love in life should strive to seeSometimes what love in death would be!Easier to love, we so should find.It is than to be just and kind.She's gone: shut close the coffin-lid:What distance for another didThat death has done for her! The goodOnce gazed upon with heedless mood,Now fills with tears the famish'd eye,And turns all else to vanity.'Tis sad to see, with death between,The good we have pass'd and have not seen!How strange appear the words of all!The looks of those that live appal.They are the ghosts, and check the breath:There's no reality but death,And hunger for some signal givenThat we shall have our own in heaven.But this the God of love lets beA horrible uncertainty.How great her smallest virtue seems,How small her greatest fault! Ill dreamsWere those that foil'd with loftier graceThe homely kindness of her face.'Twas here she sat and work'd, and thereShe comb'd and kiss'd the children's hair;Or, with one baby at her breast,Another taught, or hush'd to rest.Praise does the heart no more refuseTo the chief loveliness of use.Her humblest good is hence most highIn the heavens of fond memory;And Love says Amen to the word,A prudent wife is from the Lord.Her worst gown's kept, ('tis now the best,As that in which she oftenest dress'd,)For memory's sake more precious grownThan she herself was for her own.Poor child! Foolish it seem'd to flyTo sobs instead of dignity,When she was hurt. Now, none than all,Heart-rending and angelicalThat ignorance of what to do,Bewilder'd still by wrong from you:For what man ever yet had graceNe'er to abuse his power and place?No magic of her voice or smileSuddenly raised a fairy isle,But fondness for her underwentAn unregarded increment,Like that which lifts, through centuries,The coral-reef within the seas,Till, lo! the land where was the wave.Alas! 'tis everywhere her grave.
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