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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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XIV. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER.

74 lines
Coventry Patmore·1823–1896
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ear Mother, as you write, I seeHow glad and thankful I should beFor such a husband. Yet to tellThe truth, I am so miserable!How could he--I remember, though,He never said me loved me! No,He is so right that all seems wrongI've done and thought my whole life long!I'm grown so dull and dead with fearThat Yes and No, when he is near,Is all I have to say. He's quiteUnlike what most would call polite,And yet, when first I saw him comeTo tea in Aunt's fine drawing-room,He made me feel so common! Oh,How dreadful if he thinks me so!It's no use trying to behaveTo him. His eye, so kind and grave,Sees through and through me! Could not you,Without his knowing that I knew,Ask him to scold me now and then?Mother, it's such a weary strainThe way he has of treating meAs if 'twas something fine to beA woman; and appearing notTo notice any faults I've got!I know he knows I'm plain, and small,Stupid and ignorant, and allAwkward and mean; and, by degrees,I see a beauty which he sees,When often he looks strange awhile,Then recollects me with a smile.I wish he had that fancied Wife,With me for Maid, now! all my lifeTo dress her out for him, and makeHer looks the lovelier for his sake;To have her rate me till I cried;Then see her seated by his side,And driven off proudly to the Ball;Then to stay up for her, whilst allThe servants were asleep; and hearAt dawn the carriage rolling near,And let them in; and hear her laugh,And boast, he said that none was halfSo beautiful, and that the Queen,Who danced with him the first, had seenAnd noticed her, and ask'd who wasThat lady in the golden gauze?And then to go to bed, and lieIn a sort of heavenly jealousy,Until 'twas broad day, and I guess'dShe slept, nor knew how she was bless'd.Pray burn this letter. I would notComplain, but for the fear I've gotOf going wild, as we hear tellOf people shut up in a cell,With no one there to talk to. HeMust never know he is loved by meThe most; he'd think himself to blame;And I should almost die for shame.If being good would serve insteadOf being graceful, ah, then, Fred--But I, myself, I never couldSee what's in women's being good;For all their goodness is to doJust what their nature tells them to.Now, when a man would do what's right,He has to try with all his might.Though true and kind in deed and word,Fred's not a vessel of the Lord.But I have hopes of him; for, oh,How can we ever surely knowBut that the very darkest placeMay be the scene of saving grace!
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