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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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VIII. FROM FREDERICK.

52 lines
Coventry Patmore·1823–1896
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eligion, duty, books, work, friends,--'Tis good advice, but there it ends.I'm sick for what these have not got.Send no more books: they help me not;I do my work: the void's there stillWhich carefullest duty cannot fill.What though the inaugural hour of rightComes ever with a keen delight?Little relieves the labour's heat;Disgust oft crowns it when complete;And life, in fact, is not less dullFor being very dutiful.'The stately homes of England,' lo,'How beautiful they stand!' They oweHow much to nameless things like meTheir beauty of security!But who can long a low toil mendBy looking to a lofty end?And let me, since 'tis truth, confessThe void's not fill'd by godliness.God is a tower without a stair,And His perfection, love's despair.'Tis He shall judge me when I die;He suckles with the hissing flyThe spider; gazes calmly down.Whilst rapine grips the helpless town.His vast love holds all this and more.In consternation I adore.Nor can I ease this aching gulfWith friends, the pictures of myself.Then marvel not that I recurFrom each and all of these to her.For more of heaven than her have INo sensitive capacity.Had I but her, ah, what the gainOf owning aught but that domain!Nay, heaven's extent, however much,Cannot be more than many such;And, she being mine, should God to meSay 'Lo! my Child, I give to thee'All heaven besides,' what could I then,But, as a child, to Him complainThat whereas my dear Father gaveA little space for me to haveIn His great garden, now, o'erblest,I've that, indeed, but all the rest,Which, somehow, makes it seem I've gotAll but my only cared-for plot.Enough was that for my weak handTo tend, my heart to understand.Oh, the sick fact, 'twixt her and meThere's naught, and half a world of sea.
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