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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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VI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM.

66 lines
Coventry Patmore·1823–1896
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ear Mother, I can surely tell,Now, that I never shall get wellBesides the warning in my mind,All suddenly are grown so kind.Fred stopp'd the Doctor, yesterday,Downstairs, and, when he went away,Came smiling back, and sat with me,Pale, and conversing cheerfullyAbout the Spring, and how my cough,In finer weather, would leave off.I saw it all, and told him plainI felt no hope of Spring again.Then he, after a word of jest,Burst into tears upon my breast,And own'd, when he could speak, he knewThere was a little danger, too.This made me very weak and ill,And while, last night, I lay quite still,And, as he fancied, in the deep,Exhausted rest of my short sleep,I heard, or dream'd I heard him pray:'Oh, Father, take her not away!Let not life's dear assurance lapseInto death's agonised "Perhaps,"A hope without Thy promise, whereLess than assurance is despair!Give me some sign, if go she must,That death's not worse than dust to dust,Not heaven, on whose oblivious shoreJoy I may have, but her no more!The bitterest cross, it seems to me,Of all is infidelity;And so, if I may choose, I'll missThe kind of heaven which comes to this.If doom'd, indeed, this fever ceased,To die out wholly, like a beast,Forgetting all life's ill successIn dark and peaceful nothingness,I could but say, Thy will be done;For, dying thus, I were but oneOf seed innumerable which ne'erIn all the worlds shall bloom or bear.I've put life past to so poor useWell may'st Thou life to come refuse;And justice, which the spirit contents,Shall still in me all vain laments;Nay, pleased, I will, while yet I live,Think Thou my forfeit joy may'st giveTo some fresh life, else unelect,And heaven not feel my poor defect!Only let not Thy method beTo make that life, and call it me;Still less to sever mine in twain,And tell each half to live again,And count itself the whole! To die,Is it love's disintegrity?Answer me, "No," and I, with grace,Will life's brief desolation face,My ways, as native to the clime,Adjusting to the wintry time,Ev'n with a patient cheer thereof--'He started up, hearing me cough.Oh, Mother, now my last doubt's gone!He likes me _more_ than Mrs. Vaughan;And death, which takes me from his side,Shows me, in very deed, his bride!
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