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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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VII. FROM FREDERICK.

76 lines
Coventry Patmore·1823–1896
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rite not, my Mother, her dear nameWith the least word or hint of blame.Who else shall discommend her choice,I giving it my hearty voice?Wed me? Ah, never near her comeThe knowledge of the narrow home!Far fly from her dear face, that showsThe sunshine lovelier than the rose,The sordid gravity they wearWho poverty's base burthen bear!(And all are poor who come to missTheir custom, though a crown be this.)My hope was, that the wheels of fate,For my exceeding need, might wait,And she, unseen amidst all eyes,Move sightless, till I sought the prize,With honour, in an equal field.But then came Vaughan, to whom I yieldWith grace as much as any man,In such cause, to another can.Had she been mine, it seems to meThat I had that integrityAnd only joy in her delight--But each is his own favouriteIn love! The thought to bring me restIs that of us she takes the best.'Twas but to see him to be sureThat choice for her remain'd no more!His brow, so gaily clear of craft;His wit, the timely truth that laugh'dTo find itself so well express'd;His words, abundant yet the best;His spirit, of such handsome showYou mark'd not that his looks were so;His bearing, prospects, birth, all theseMight well, with small suit, greatly please;How greatly, when she saw ariseThe reflex sweetness of her eyesIn his, and every breath deferHumbly its bated life to her;Whilst power and kindness of command.Which women can no more withstandThan we their grace, were still unquell'd,And force and flattery both compell'dHer softness! Say I'm worthy. IGrew, in her presence, cold and shy.It awed me, as an angel's mightIn raiment of reproachful light.Her gay looks told my sombre moodThat what's not happy is not good;And, just because 'twas life to please,Death to repel her, truth and easeDeserted me; I strove to talk,And stammer'd foolishness; my walkWas like a drunkard's; if she tookMy arm, it stiffen'd, ached, and shook:A likely wooer! Blame her not;Nor ever say, dear Mother, aughtAgainst that perfectness which isMy strength, as once it was my bliss.And do not chafe at social rules.Leave that to charlatans and fools.Clay grafts and clods conceive the rose,So base still fathers best. Life owesItself to bread; enough thereofAnd easy days condition love;And, kindly train'd, love's roses thrive,No more pale, scentless petals five,Which moisten the considerate eyeTo see what haste they make to die,But heavens of colour and perfume,Which, month by month, renew the bloomOf art-born graces, when the yearIn all the natural grove is sere.Blame nought then! Bright let be the airAbout my lonely cloud of care.
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