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Tintern Abbey

William Wordsworth (7 April 1770 23 April 1850) was a major English


Romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the
Romantic Age in English literature with their joint publication Lyrical Ballads
(1798).
As a poet of Nature, Wordsworth stands supreme. He is a worshipper of
Nature, Natures devotee or high-priest. His love of Nature was probably
truer, and more tender, than that of any other English poet, before or since.
He conceived of Nature as a living Personality. He believed that there is a
divine spirit pervading all the objects of Nature. This belief in a divine
spirit pervading all the objects of Nature may be termed as mystical
Pantheism and is fully expressed in Tintern Abbey and in several passages
in Book II of The Prelude.
The title, Lines Written (or Composed) a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on
Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798, is often
abbreviated simply to Tintern Abbey, although that building does not appear
within the poem. It was written by William Wordsworth after a walking tour
with his sister in this section of the Welsh Borders. The description of his
encounters with the countryside on the banks of the River Wye grows into an
outline of his general philosophy.
The poem has its roots in Wordsworths personal history. He had previously
visited the area as a troubled twenty-three-year-old in August 1793. Since
then he had matured and his seminal poetical relationship with Samuel Taylor
Coleridge had begun. Wordsworth claimed to have composed the poem entirely
in his head, beginning it upon leaving Tintern and not jotting down so much as a
line until he reached Bristol, by which time it had just reached mental
completion. Although the Lyrical Ballads upon which the two friends had been
working was by then already in publication, he was so pleased with what he
had just written that he had it inserted at the eleventh hour as the
concluding poem.
Summary:
The full title of this poem is Lines Composed a Few Miles above
Tintern Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July13, 1798.

Present Experience:
It opens with the speakers declaration that five years have passed since he last
visited this location, encountered its tranquil, rustic scenery, and heard the
murmuring waters of the river. He recites the objects he sees again, and
describes their effect upon him: the steep and lofty cliffs impress upon him
(1) thoughts of more deep seclusion; he leans against the dark sycamore tree
and looks at the cottage-grounds and the orchard trees, whose fruit is still
unripe. (2) He sees the wreaths of smoke rising up from cottage chimneys
between the trees, and imagines that they might rise from vagrant
dwellers in the houseless woods, or from the cave of a hermit in the deep
forest.
Past Memory:
The speaker then describes how his memory of these(1) beauteous forms
has worked upon him in his absence from them: when he was alone, or in
crowded towns and cities, they provided him with sensations sweet, / Felt in
the blood, and felt along the heart. The memory of the woods and cottages
offered (2)tranquil restoration to his mind, and even affected him when he
was not aware of the memory, influencing his deeds of kindness and love. He
further credits the memory of the scene with offering him access to that mental
and spiritual state in(3) which the burden of the world is lightened, in which
he becomes a living soul with a view into the life of things. The speaker
then says that his belief that the memory($) of the woods has affected him so
strongly may be vainbut if it is, he has still turned to the memory often in
times of fretful stir.
Loss of Innocense:
Even in the present moment, the memory of his(1) past experiences in these
surroundings floats over his present view of them, and he feels bittersweet
joy in reviving them. He thinks happily, too, that his present experience will
provide many happy memories for future years. (2)The speaker
acknowledges that he is different now from how he was in those long-ago
times, when, as a boy, he bounded oer the mountains and through the
streams. In those days, he says, nature made up his whole world: waterfalls,
mountains, and woods gave shape to his passions, his appetites, and his
love. (3)That time is now past, he says, but he does not mourn it, for though
he cannot resume his old relationship with nature, he has been amply
(4)compensated by a new set of more mature gifts; for instance, he can now
look on nature, not as in the hour / Of thoughtless youth; but hearing
oftentimes / The still, sad music of humanity. And he can now sense the
presence of something far more subtle, powerful, and fundamental in the light
of the setting suns, the ocean, the air itself, and even in the mind of man; this
energy seems to him a motion and a spirit that impels / All thinking thoughts....
/ And rolls through all things. For that reason, he says, (5)he still loves nature,
still loves mountains and pastures and woods, for they anchor his purest
thoughts and guard the heart and soul of his moral being.
Sister:
The speaker says that even if he did not feel this way or understand these
things, he would still be in good spirits on this day, for he is in the company
of his dear, dear (d) Sister, who is also his dear, dear Friend, and in
whose voice and manner he observes his former self, and beholds what I was
once. He offers a prayer to nature that he might continue to do so for a
little while, knowing, as he says, that Nature never did betray / The heart
that loved her, but leads rather from joy to joy. Natures power over the
mind that seeks her out is such that it renders that mind impervious to evil
tongues, rash judgments, and the sneers of selfish men, instilling
instead a cheerful faith that the world is full of blessings.
The speaker then encourages the moon to shine upon his sister, and the
wind to blow against her, and he says to her that in later years, when she is
sad or fearful, the memory of this experience will help to heal her. And if he
himself is dead, she can remember the love with which he worshipped
nature. In that case, too, she will remember what the woods meant to the
speaker, the way in which, after so many years of absence, they became more
dear to himboth for themselves and for the fact that she is in them.
The poems tripartite division encompasses a contextual scene-setting, a developing theorisation
of the significance of his experience of the landscape, and a final confirmatory address to the
implied listener.

Lines 149

Revisiting the natural beauty of the Wye after five years fills the poet with a sense of "tranquil
restoration". He recognises in the landscape something which had been so internalised as to
become the basis for out of the body experience.

Lines 49-111

In "thoughtless youth" the poet had rushed enthusiastically about the landscape and it is
only now that he realises the power such scenery has continued to have upon him, even
when not physically present there. He identifies in it "a sense sublime/ Of something far
more deeply interfused,/ Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns" (lines 9597) and
the immanence of "A motion and a spirit, that impels/ All thinking things, all objects of all
thought,/ And rolls through all things" (lines 100103). With this insight he finds in nature
"The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,/ The guide, the guardian of my heart,
and soul/ Of all my moral being" (lines 108111).

Lines 111-159

The third movement of the poem is addressed to his sister Dorothy, "my dearest
Friend,/ My dear, dear Friend," as a sharer in this vision and in the conviction that
"all which we behold is full of blessings". It is this that will continue to create a lasting
bond between them.

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a soft inland murmur.Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

That on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

Mid groves and copses. Once again I see

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines


Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

With some uncertain notice, as might seem

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

Or of some Hermits cave, where by his fire

The Hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms,

Through a long absence, have not been to me

As is a landscape to a blind mans eye:

But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind,

With tranquil restoration:feelings too

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence

On that best portion of a good mans life,

His little, nameless, unremembered, acts


Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift,

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened:that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

And even the motion of our human blood

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft

In darkness and amid the many shapes

Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir


Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro the woods,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,

And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

The picture of the mind revives again:

While here I stand, not only with the sense

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts

That in this moment there is life and food

For future years. And so I dare to hope,

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first

I came among these hills; when like a roe

I bounded oer the mountains, by the sides

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Wherever nature led: more like a man

Flying from something that he dreads, than one

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,


And their glad animal movements all gone by)

To me was all in all.I cannot paint

What then I was. The sounding cataract

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to me

An appetite; a feeling and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, nor any interest

Unborrowed from the eye.That time is past,

And all its aching joys are now no more,

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts

Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,

Abundant recompence. For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still, sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy


Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows and the woods,

And mountains; and of all that we behold

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

Of eye, and ear,both what they half create,

And what perceive; well pleased to recognise

In nature and the language of the sense,

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more


Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me here upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,

My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall eer prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold


Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain-winds be free

To blow against thee: and, in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existencewilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of Nature, hither came

Unwearied in that service: rather say

With warmer loveoh! with far deeper zeal


Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

Dejection: An Ode

Dejection: An Ode is a poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1802. The


poem in its original form was written to Sara Hutchinson, a woman who was
not his wife, and discusses his feelings of love for her. The various versions of
the poem describe Coleridge's inability to write poetry and living in a state of
paralysis, but published editions remove his personal feelings and mention
of Hutchinson.

The poem was a reply to William Wordsworth's "Resolution and


Independence". It is also connected to Wordsworth's Immortality Ode in
theme and structure. The poem expresses feelings of dejection and the
inability to write poetry or to enjoy nature. Wordsworth is introduced into the
poem as a counter to Coleridge, because Wordsworth is able to turn such a
mood into a benefit and is able to be comforted. However, Coleridge cannot
find anything positive in his problems, and he expresses how he feels paralyzed
by his emotions.

Critical Comments:

George Watson claims that the trimming of the poem "set forth upon the world as
one of the oddest compromises in English poetry: an intensely, bitterly, almost indecently private
poem of an unhappily married poet, cast into the most public of all forms, the neoclassical
Pindaric.

Rosemary Ashton believes that "Coleridge's special genius scarcely surfaced, though it would
do so once more in his great poem 'Dejection: An Ode'".

Dejection: An Ode

Related Poem Content Details


BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,


With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
(Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence)
I
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this olian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

II
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gazeand with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

III
My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
VII
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderingsall is over
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Nor far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

Summary

The speaker recalls a poem that tells the tale of Sir Patrick Spence: In this poem, the moon takes
on a certain strange appearance that presages the coming of a storm. The speaker declares that
if the author of the poem possessed a sound understanding of weather, then a storm will break
on this night as well, for the moon looks now as it did in the poem. The speaker wishes ardently
for a storm to erupt, for the violence of the squall might cure his numb feeling. He says that he
feels only a dull pain, a grief without a panga constant deadening of all his feelings.
Speaking to a woman whom he addresses as O Lady, he admits that he has been gazing at
the western sky all evening, able to see its beauty but unable fully to feel it. He says that
staring at the green sky will never raise his spirits, for no outward forms can generate
feelings: Emotions can only emerge from within.

According to the speaker, we receive but what we give: the soul itself must provide the light
by which we may hope to see natures true beautya beauty not given to the common crowd of
human beings (the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd). Calling the Lady pure of heart, the
speaker says that she already knows about the light and music of the soul, which is Joy. Joy,
he says, marries us to nature, thereby giving us a new Earth and new Heaven, / Undreamt of
by the sensual and the proud.

The speaker insists that there was a time when he was full of hope, when every tribulation
was simply the material with which fancy made me dreams of happiness. But now his
afflictions press him to the earth; he does not mind the decline of his mirth, but he cannot
bear the corresponding degeneration of his imagination, which is the source of his creativity
and his understanding of the human condition, that which enables him to construct from my own
nature all the natural man. Hoping to escape the viper thoughts that coil around his
mind, the speaker turns his attention to the howling wind that has begun to blow. He
thinks of the world as an instrument played by a musician, who spins out of the wind a
worse than wintry song. This melody first calls to mind the rush of an army on the field;
quieting, it then evokes a young girl, lost and alone.

It is midnight, but the speaker has small thoughts of sleep. However, he hopes that his friend
the Lady will be visited by gentle Sleep and that she will wake with joyful thoughts and
light heart. Calling the Lady the friend devoutest of my choice, the speaker wishes
that she might ever, evermore rejoice.

Form

The long ode stanzas of Dejection are metered in iambic lines ranging in length from trimeter to
pentameter. The rhymes alternate between bracketed rhymes (ABBA) and couplets (CC) with
occasional exceptions.

Commentary

In this poem, Coleridge continues his sophisticated philosophical exploration of the relationship
between man and nature, positing as he did in The Nightingale that human feelings and the
forms of nature are essentially separate. Just as the speaker insisted in the earlier poem that the
nightingales song should not be called melancholy simply because it sounded so to a
melancholy poet, he insists here that the beauty of the sky before the storm does not have the
power to fill him with joy, for the source of human feeling is within. Only when the individual has
access to that source, so that joy shines from him like a light, is he able to see the beauty of
nature and to respond to it. (As in Frost in Midnight, the city-raised Coleridge insists on a
sharper demarcation between the mind and nature than the country-raised Wordsworth would
ever have done.)

Cloud
"The Cloud" is a major 1820 poem written by Percy Bysshe Shelley. The work was published in
the 1820 collection Prometheus Unbound, A Lyrical Drama, in Four Acts, With Other Poems. The
cloud is a metaphor for the unending cycle of nature: "I silently laugh at my own cenotaph/ ... I
arise and unbuild it again." As with the wind and the leaves in "Ode to the West Wind", the
skylark in "To a Skylark", and the plant in "The Sensitive Plant", Shelley endows the cloud with
sentient traits that personify the forces of nature.

In "The Cloud", Shelley relies on the imagery of transformation or metamorphosis, a cycle of


birth, death, and rebirth: "I change, but I cannot die." Mutability or change is a fact of physical
nature.[1]

Showrs shades hails - rains

The first stanza states the various activities and functions of the cloud. It brings fresh showers
from the seas and rivers for thirsty flowers. It provides shade for the leaves when they sleep
during the daytime. It showers down upon buds that open up after being fed in this manner.
Sometimes, the cloud also brings the hail that covers the green plains with a white coat, but soon
enough it dissolves this hail with rain.

Snow Sleep in strom lighting - destroyer

In the second stanza the poet describes some more of the clouds activities. It disturbs the snow
on mountaintops, and this makes the tall pine tree grown in surprise. At night, the snow forms
its pillow while it sleeps in the arms of the storm. Lightning guides the cloud over water and
land, because it is attracted by its love for the genii, the negatively charged counterpart of the
positive charge in the lightning above, or the spirits that live below the purple sea. In search, of
this love, lightning travels everywhere taking the cloud with it. During his journey, the cloud enjoys
itself in the smile of the blue sky, while lightening dissolves itself in tears of rain. The details of
the first stanza and the second stanza evoke both gentle and harsh qualities of the cloud; it is not
only the agent of nursing baby plants, it also threatens and even destroys the old pine trees ( in
Shelley, the old trees are rooted evil institutions and conventions of inhumanity). - See more at:
http://www.bachelorandmaster.com/britishandamericanpoetry/the-cloud.html#.VyFv6PkrKM8

The third stanza describes the clouds game with the sun. The cloud says the red colored
sun, with its large eyes and its burning feathers, jumps onto the clouds sailing cradle
when the morning star loses its shine. Its position is similar to an eagle sitting for a moment
on the top of a mountain, which is moved hither and thither by the earthquake. When the
sunset announces the end of the day, singing its song of rest and love from the sea beneath,
when the red covering falls upon the whole world from the sky, the cloud rests like a dove,
sitting in its nest with folded wings. This image evokes the Biblical image of the Holy Spirit,
the one universal creative force, evoking the cloud significance as a universally creative force of
the nature. - See more at: http://www.bachelorandmaster.com/britishandamericanpoetry/the-
cloud.html#.VyFv6PkrKM8
In the fourth stanza, we find the cloud talking about the moon. It says that the
moon guides over the soft, silken floor of the cloud, the floor that has been prepared by
the midnight breezes that scatter the cloud here and there. At some places, where the moon
places its feet, the clouds thin roof is rent open, through which the stars peep and stare.
When, after staring, the stars turn round and run away, the cloud laughs at them. Then, the
cloud widens the hole in its tent-shaped roof and consequently moonlight floods all objects on the
earths surface. The moon is then reflected by the calm surface of lakes, rivers and seas,
till is seems that a part of the sky has fallen down. Here, the cloud is the type of altocumulus.
The images of the playful moon and stars evoke the idea of the playfulness of the creative forces
like the cloud and its allies. - See more at:
http://www.bachelorandmaster.com/britishandamericanpoetry/the-cloud.html#.VyFv6PkrKM8

In the fifth stanza, the cloud describes the manner in which it restricts the moon and the sun. It
restricts the suns throne with a bright circle, while it creates a circle of pearls round the
moons throne. When its banner is spread across the sky by the stormy wind, it makes the
bright volcanoes dim and the stars spin and swim. It hangs like a roof over a torrential sea,
and protects it from the heat of the sun. It is itself supported in its roof-like position of the
mountains. The multi-colored rainbow forms a triumphal arch, through which it marches,
attended by the hurricane, fire and snow, pushed by the stormy breeze. Here, the cloud
changes from the form of cirrostratus to that of stratocumulus. - See more at:
http://www.bachelorandmaster.com/britishandamericanpoetry/the-cloud.html#.VyFv6PkrKM8

. In the final stanza, the cloud describes its origin; it says that it is the daughter of earth and
water, and an infant nursed by the sky. It passes through the holes in the oceans and the
shores. It changes, but it does not die. The cloud is one thing and also many things; it
changes its forms but it is the same essence of life, growth and change in the nature. It is
the agent of the cycle of life, for it changes the seasons and sustains all living beings by
bringing the rain, giving shade, letting the sun shine when needed, and bringing the dry
autumn for plants to wither and give way to the next spring. It is not only gentle like a child,
it is also terrible like a ghost; it supports the system of life ceaselessly and in numberless
ways. - See more at: http://www.bachelorandmaster.com/britishandamericanpoetry/the-
cloud.html#.VyFv6PkrKM8

he Cloud

Related Poem Content Details

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,


From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,


And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,


And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine ary nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbd maiden with white fire laden,


Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,


And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,


And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

The Last Ride Together by


Robert Browning
The Last Ride Together by Robert Browning is a monologue of a rejected lover exploring the
end of a love affair. The title suggests the last ride that the lover has spent with his love. However,
the poet wants to convey through the narrator that rather than feeling sad about the end, he
should be happy for the love that he underwent and which remains in his memory.

The first stanza presents a self-consolation. Its based on the underlying theory of blame it all
on fate. Of course the poem talks about love and its attendant failures. The speaker thinks that
failure is inevitable as he himself has failed. He is attempting to reduce his pain by trying to
curtail his desires. Words are so chosen to convey the feeling of polite resignation and
acceptance of defeat. The word since is used five times in the same paragraph which in one
hand may indicate to the fact that Browning got involved in an emotional flow and lost control
over his poetic polish of words. Moreover, the diction is superficial, and of superhuman
psychology because a man who has been ditched cant have too many good things to say about
the former flame unless of course he is ironical about it. Generally, browning though a Dramatic
Monologist is one of the profoundest lyricists which can be determined by the rhyme scheme
aa, bb, caa, bb, c and the predominant rhythm i.e. iambic pentameter. In fact the whole
paragraph is rhetorical.

The second stanza deals with the anticipation of a response by the speaker from the
mistress. It is this dilemma and wait for the answer that contributes to the dramatic effect
of the poem. The stanza progresses thus from spine chilling excitement and anticipation to joy
to relief and finally to ecstasy. The images of the mistress bending her brow, her deep dark
eyes, her breathing and consequent heaving of the bosom and her blush conveys an
almost erotic charm to the poem. In a superb metaphor With life or death in the
balance. The speaker compares yes with life and no with death. Rhythm and rhyme adds a
lyrical charm to the dramatic poem. The diction provides a picture of the action in the man with
which Browning was more concerned. It clearly brings out the anxiety and the emotional
turmoil in the speakers brain. Words like bent that brow refers to the brooding of the
lady over the proposal. Fixed and breathing clearly brings out the anxiety of the speaker. The
condition of yes and no has been beautifully painted as life and death respectively. The
stanza could also be memorable for the line Who knows but the world may end
tonight. This line affirms the stupid optimism of the speaker who becomes as a much a butt of
ridicule as the people he satirizes for their failures.

The third stanza deals with the beautiful feeling that follows after being with ones beloved
the feeling of being on the top of the world after achieving ones goal. It also deals with the
more physical part of love. The tone is of being overwhelmed in love in which everything is
blessed . . . benediction. . . /and . . . at once. Towards the end, however, the tone becomes
sensual in aspect. The sky of the first four lines is studded with the stars of imageries. The
billowy bosomed benediction not only brings out a crisp alliteration but also a half
personification. The image of a sort of physical if not sexual love comes to our minds by
few lines and words like: Conscious . . . drew, down on you . . . near, . . . learnt
she. . ., Thus . . . breast. The mistress has provided him with more than asked for. The
words chosen have created or the words were deliberately chosen to create a calming effect like
hush!, passion drew, fade, lingered which are in tune with theme and tone of the paragraph.
Yet the rhythm is itself uncertain which gives the poem its characteristic dramtic tinge.

The next stanza provides us with a touch of Brownings philosophy. Dealing with the present
and stop being bothered about the past. The tone of the poem presents a mix of consolatory
and philosophical musings. With the fluttering in the wind metaphor, the speaker
compares the soul with a long-cramped scroll. In itself it is a fresh metaphor unparalleled in
literature. Though the paragraph is simply composed, the line numbers 35 and 36 express the
poets genius of moulding ideas into words, and thoughts into language:

. . ., my soul

Smoothed . . . scroll

Freshening . . . wind.

Again the stanza doesnt give us a proper rhythm which acts similar to the last stanza.

Next stanza contains little of artistic or dramatic techniques but more of philosophical elements.
The theory of failure is introduced. In order to hide his agony he deliberately compares
himself with those people who had failed in their lives but not with these who have
achieved the zenith. Its a mere acceptance of defeat and on untrue optimism of better
chance in future life (heaven). The word hope used twice which adds up to the three
hopes used before; this suggests the disappointment behind the hope cause we speak of a
truth only once but we keep on repeating the lie to make it true.
Next stanza presents the philosophical idea that the life of contemplation in love is far greater
than material world. The words to look for in the stanza are fleshly, screen, bosom heave,
many a crown, heap of bones. These words do signify the sensuous markers of the poem. The
humour is brought back into the poem by the line Ten lines . . . . The stanza deals with the
continuity of dreams into reality. The gulf between imagination and creation is shortened.
It also deals with the comparison of the life of a statesman and soldier with the life and
achievement of a lover and puts the lover and his momentary triumph over the
achievements of the statesman and soldier. The speakers tone is self congratulatory because
nobody else congratulates him for having a last ride witht her beloved. The tone is that of
the justification of ones failure, the tone is of giving a lame excuse. The first four lines are
rhetorically interrogational, with a zeugma in line number 56(economising the poem hence
making it compact), and a synecdoche in line number 61. The diction is very much pregnant with
ideas and suggestions. The words in the beginning of the stanza marches ahead with swords
and banners of questions but suddenly halts for the poet to synchronised this stanza with the
other ones rhythmically inserts a line that doesnt seem to be in line with the marching tone of the
four previous lines, however, after further scrutinizing we can see that the idea which the line
suggests is that the speaker has united his thought and action but the line certainly breaks the
rhythm of the stanza and which adds to the disadvantage of the poem. The diction is otherwise
straight forward and clearly brings out the idea which the speaker wants to convey.

The next two stanzas both love and life are painstakingly proven to be better than art, poetry. The
last two stanzas waxes metaphysical and almost borders on obscurity.

The Importance of Being Earnest, A Trivial Comedy for Serious People is a play byOscar
Wilde. First performed on 14 February 1895 at the St James's Theatre in London, it is a farcical
comedy in which the protagonists maintain fictitious person to escape burdensome social
obligations.

John (Jack/Ernest) Worthing, J.P. - The plays protagonist. Jack Worthing is


a seemingly responsible and respectable young man who leads a double life.
In Hertfordshire, where he has a country estate, Jack is known as Jack. In
London he is known as Ernest. As a baby, Jack was discovered in a handbag
in the cloakroom of Victoria Station by an old man who adopted him and
subsequently made Jack guardian to his granddaughter, Cecily Cardew. Jack
is in love with his friend Algernons cousin, Gwendolen Fairfax. The initials
after his name indicate that he is a Justice of the Peace.

Algernon Moncrieff - The plays secondary hero. Algernon is a charming,


idle, decorative bachelor, nephew of Lady Bracknell, cousin of Gwendolen
Fairfax, and best friend of Jack Worthing, whom he has known for years as
Ernest. Algernon is brilliant, witty, selfish, amoral, and given to making
delightful paradoxical and epigrammatic pronouncements. He has invented a
fictional friend, Bunbury, an invalid whose frequent sudden relapses allow
Algernon to wriggle out of unpleasant or dull social obligations.

Read an in-depth analysis of Algernon Moncrieff.


Gwendolen Fairfax - Algernons cousin and Lady Bracknells daughter.
Gwendolen is in love with Jack, whom she knows as Ernest. A model and
arbiter of high fashion and society, Gwendolen speaks with unassailable
authority on matters of taste and morality. She is sophisticated, intellectual,
cosmopolitan, and utterly pretentious. Gwendolen is fixated on the name
Ernest and says she will not marry a man without that name.

Read an in-depth analysis of Gwendolen Fairfax.


Cecily Cardew - Jacks ward, the granddaughter of the old gentlemen who
found and adopted Jack when Jack was a baby. Cecily is probably the most
realistically drawn character in the play. Like Gwendolen, she is obsessed with
the name Ernest, but she is even more intrigued by the idea of wickedness.
This idea, rather than the virtuous-sounding name, has prompted her to fall in
love with Jacks brother Ernest in her imagination and to invent an elaborate
romance and courtship between them.

Read an in-depth analysis of Cecily Cardew.


Lady Bracknell - Algernons snobbish, mercenary, and domineering aunt and
Gwendolens mother. Lady Bracknell married well, and her primary goal in life
is to see her daughter do the same. She has a list of eligible young men and
a prepared interview she gives to potential suitors. Like her nephew, Lady
Bracknell is given to making hilarious pronouncements, but where Algernon
means to be witty, the humor in Lady Bracknells speeches is unintentional.
Through the figure of Lady Bracknell, Wilde manages to satirize the hypocrisy
and stupidity of the British aristocracy. Lady Bracknell values ignorance, which
she sees as a delicate exotic fruit. When she gives a dinner party, she
prefers her husband to eat downstairs with the servants. She is cunning,
narrow-minded, authoritarian, and possibly the most quotable character in the
play.

Miss Prism - Cecilys governess. Miss Prism is an endless source of


pedantic bromides and clichs. She highly approves of Jacks presumed
respectability and harshly criticizes his unfortunate brother. Puritan though
she is, Miss Prisms severe pronouncements have a way of going so far over
the top that they inspire laughter. Despite her rigidity, Miss Prism seems to
have a softer side. She speaks of having once written a novel whose
manuscript was lost or abandoned. Also, she entertains romantic feelings
for Dr. Chasuble.

Rev. Canon Chasuble, D.D. - The rector on Jacks estate. Both Jack and
Algernon approach Dr. Chasuble to request that they be christened Ernest.
Dr. Chasuble entertains secret romantic feelings for Miss Prism. The initials
after his name stand for Doctor of Divinity.

Lane - Algernons manservant. When the play opens, Lane is the only person
who knows about Algernons practice of Bunburying. Lane appears only in
Act I.

Merriman - The butler at the Manor House, Jacks estate in the country.
Merriman appears only in Acts II and III.

Jack Worthing, the plays protagonist, is a pillar of the community in


Hertfordshire, where he is guardian to Cecily Cardew, the pretty, eighteen-
year-old granddaughter of the late Thomas Cardew, who found and adopted
Jack when he was a baby. In Hertfordshire, Jack has responsibilities: he is a
major landowner and justice of the peace, with tenants, farmers, and a
number of servants and other employees all dependent on him. For years, he
has also pretended to have an irresponsible black-sheep brother named
Ernest who leads a scandalous life in pursuit of pleasure and is always getting
into trouble of a sort that requires Jack to rush grimly off to his assistance. In
fact, Ernest is merely Jacks alibi, a phantom that allows him to disappear for
days at a time and do as he likes. No one but Jack knows that he himself is
Ernest. Ernest is the name Jack goes by in London, which is where he really
goes on these occasionsprobably to pursue the very sort of behavior he
pretends to disapprove of in his imaginary brother.

Jack is in love with Gwendolen Fairfax, the cousin of his best friend, Algernon
Moncrieff. When the play opens, Algernon, who knows Jack as Ernest, has
begun to suspect something, having found an inscription inside Jacks
cigarette case addressed to Uncle Jack from someone who refers to herself
as little Cecily. Algernon suspects that Jack may be leading a double life, a
practice he seems to regard as commonplace and indispensable to modern
life. He calls a person who leads a double life a Bunburyist, after a
nonexistent friend he pretends to have, a chronic invalid named Bunbury, to
whose deathbed he is forever being summoned whenever he wants to get out
of some tiresome social obligation.

At the beginning of Act I, Jack drops in unexpectedly on Algernon and


announces that he intends to propose to Gwendolen. Algernon confronts him
with the cigarette case and forces him to come clean, demanding to know who
Jack and Cecily are. Jack confesses that his name isnt really Ernest and
that Cecily is his ward, a responsibility imposed on him by his adoptive fathers
will. Jack also tells Algernon about his fictional brother. Jack says hes been
thinking of killing off this fake brother, since Cecily has been showing too
active an interest in him. Without meaning to, Jack describes Cecily in terms
that catch Algernons attention and make him even more interested in her than
he is already.

Gwendolen and her mother, Lady Bracknell, arrive, which gives Jack an
opportunity to propose to Gwendolen. Jack is delighted to discover that
Gwendolen returns his affections, but he is alarmed to learn that Gwendolen is
fixated on the name Ernest, which she says inspires absolute confidence.
Gwendolen makes clear that she would not consider marrying a man who
was not named Ernest.

Lady Bracknell interviews Jack to determine his eligibility as a possible son-in-


law, and during this interview she asks about his family background. When
Jack explains that he has no idea who his parents were and that he was
found, by the man who adopted him, in a handbag in the cloakroom at Victoria
Station, Lady Bracknell is scandalized. She forbids the match between Jack
and Gwendolen and sweeps out of the house.

In Act II, Algernon shows up at Jacks country estate posing as Jacks brother
Ernest. Meanwhile, Jack, having decided that Ernest has outlived his
usefulness, arrives home in deep mourning, full of a story about Ernest having
died suddenly in Paris. He is enraged to find Algernon there masquerading as
Ernest but has to go along with the charade. If he doesnt, his own lies and
deceptions will be revealed.

While Jack changes out of his mourning clothes, Algernon, who has fallen
hopelessly in love with Cecily, asks her to marry him. He is surprised to
discover that Cecily already considers that they are engaged, and he is
charmed when she reveals that her fascination with Uncle Jacks brother led
her to invent an elaborate romance between herself and him several months
ago. Algernon is less enchanted to learn that part of Cecilys interest in him
derives from the name Ernest, which, unconsciously echoing Gwendolen, she
says inspires absolute confidence.

Algernon goes off in search of Dr. Chasuble, the local rector, to see about
getting himself christened Ernest. Meanwhile, Gwendolen arrives, having
decided to pay Jack an unexpected visit. Gwendolen is shown into the garden,
where Cecily orders tea and attempts to play hostess. Cecily has no idea how
Gwendolen figures into Jacks life, and Gwendolen, for her part, has no idea
who Cecily is. Gwendolen initially thinks Cecily is a visitor to the Manor House
and is disconcerted to learn that Cecily is Mr. Worthings ward. She notes
that Ernest has never mentioned having a ward, and Cecily explains that it is
not Ernest Worthing who is her guardian but his brother Jack and, in fact, that
she is engaged to be married to Ernest Worthing. Gwendolen points out that
this is impossible as she herself is engaged to Ernest Worthing. The tea party
degenerates into a war of manners.
Jack and Algernon arrive toward the climax of this confrontation, each having
separately made arrangements with Dr. Chasuble to be christened Ernest
later that day. Each of the young ladies points out that the other has been
deceived: Cecily informs Gwendolen that her fianc is really named Jack and
Gwendolen informs Cecily that hers is really called Algernon. The two women
demand to know where Jacks brother Ernest is, since both of them are
engaged to be married to him. Jack is forced to admit that he has no brother
and that Ernest is a complete fiction. Both women are shocked and furious,
and they retire to the house arm in arm.

Act III takes place in the drawing room of the Manor House, where Cecily and
Gwendolen have retired. When Jack and Algernon enter from the garden, the
two women confront them. Cecily asks Algernon why he pretended to be her
guardians brother. Algernon tells her he did it in order to meet her. Gwendolen
asks Jack whether he pretended to have a brother in order to come into
London to see her as often as possible, and she interprets his evasive reply
as an affirmation. The women are somewhat appeased but still concerned
over the issue of the name. However, when Jack and Algernon tell Gwendolen
and Cecily that they have both made arrangements to be christened Ernest
that afternoon, all is forgiven and the two pairs of lovers embrace. At this
moment, Lady Bracknells arrival is announced.

Lady Bracknell has followed Gwendolen from London, having bribed


Gwendolens maid to reveal her destination. She demands to know what is
going on. Gwendolen again informs Lady Bracknell of her engagement to
Jack, and Lady Bracknell reiterates that a union between them is out of the
question. Algernon tells Lady Bracknell of his engagement to Cecily,
prompting her to inspect Cecily and inquire into her social connections, which
she does in a routine and patronizing manner that infuriates Jack. He replies
to all her questions with a mixture of civility and sarcasm, withholding until the
last possible moment the information that Cecily is actually worth a great deal
of money and stands to inherit still more when she comes of age. At this, Lady
Bracknell becomes genuinely interested.
Jack informs Lady Bracknell that, as Cecilys legal guardian, he refuses to
give his consent to her union with Algernon. Lady Bracknell suggests that the
two young people simply wait until Cecily comes of age, and Jack points out
that under the terms of her grandfathers will, Cecily does not legally come of
age until she is thirty-five. Lady Bracknell asks Jack to reconsider, and he
points out that the matter is entirely in her own hands. As soon as she
consents to his marriage to Gwendolen, Cecily can have his consent to marry
Algernon. However, Lady Bracknell refuses to entertain the notion. She and
Gwendolen are on the point of leaving when Dr. Chasuble arrives and
happens to mention Cecilys governess, Miss Prism. At this, Lady Bracknell
starts and asks that Miss Prism be sent for.

When the governess arrives and catches sight of Lady Bracknell, she begins
to look guilty and furtive. Lady Bracknell accuses her of having left her sisters
house twenty-eight years before with a baby and never returned. She
demands to know where the baby is. Miss Prism confesses she doesnt know,
explaining that she lost the baby, having absentmindedly placed it in a
handbag in which she had meant to place the manuscript for a novel she had
written. Jack asks what happened to the bag, and Miss Prism says she left it
in the cloakroom of a railway station. Jack presses her for further details and
goes racing offstage, returning a few moments later with a large handbag.
When Miss Prism confirms that the bag is hers, Jack throws himself on her
with a cry of Mother! It takes a while before the situation is sorted out, but
before too long we understand that Jack is not the illegitimate child of Miss
Prism but the legitimate child of Lady Bracknells sister and, therefore,
Algernons older brother. Furthermore, Jack had been originally christened
Ernest John. All these years Jack has unwittingly been telling the truth:
Ernest is his name, as is Jack, and he does have an unprincipled younger
brotherAlgernon. Again the couples embrace, Miss Prism and Dr. Chasuble
follow suit, and Jack acknowledges that he now understands the vital
Importance of Being Earnest.

MORE HELP
Great Expectations is the thirteenth novel by Charles Dickens and his penultimate completed
novel; a bildungsroman which depicts the personal growth and personal development of an
orphan nicknamed Pip. It is Dickens's second novel, after David Copperfield, to be fully narrated
in the first person.[N 1] The novel was first published as a serial in Dickens's weekly periodical All
the Year Round, from 1 December 1860 to August 1861.[1] In October 1861, Chapman and
Hall published the novel in three volumes.

Pip, a young orphan living with his sister and her husband in the marshes
of Kent, sits in a cemetery one evening looking at his parents tombstones.
Suddenly, an escaped convict springs up from behind a tombstone, grabs Pip,
and orders him to bring him food and a file for his leg irons. Pip obeys, but the
fearsome convict is soon captured anyway. The convict protects Pip by
claiming to have stolen the items himself.

One day Pip is taken by his Uncle Pumblechook to play at Satis House, the
home of the wealthy dowager Miss Havisham, who is extremely eccentric: she
wears an old wedding dress everywhere she goes and keeps all the clocks in
her house stopped at the same time. During his visit, he meets a beautiful
young girl named Estella, who treats him coldly and contemptuously.
Nevertheless, he falls in love with her and dreams of becoming a wealthy
gentleman so that he might be worthy of her. He even hopes that Miss
Havisham intends to make him a gentleman and marry him to Estella, but his
hopes are dashed when, after months of regular visits to Satis House, Miss
Havisham decides to help him become a common laborer in his familys
business.

With Miss Havishams guidance, Pip is apprenticed to his brother-in-law, Joe,


who is the village blacksmith. Pip works in the forge unhappily, struggling to
better his education with the help of the plain, kind Biddy and encountering
Joes malicious day laborer, Orlick. One night, after an altercation with Orlick,
Pips sister, known as Mrs. Joe, is viciously attacked and becomes a mute
invalid. From her signals, Pip suspects that Orlick was responsible for the
attack.

One day a lawyer named Jaggers appears with strange news: a secret
benefactor has given Pip a large fortune, and Pip must come to London
immediately to begin his education as a gentleman. Pip happily assumes that
his previous hopes have come truethat Miss Havisham is his secret
benefactor and that the old woman intends for him to marry Estella.

In London, Pip befriends a young gentleman named Herbert Pocket and


Jaggerss law clerk, Wemmick. He expresses disdain for his former friends
and loved ones, especially Joe, but he continues to pine after Estella. He
furthers his education by studying with the tutor Matthew Pocket, Herberts
father. Herbert himself helps Pip learn how to act like a gentleman. When Pip
turns twenty-one and begins to receive an income from his fortune, he will
secretly help Herbert buy his way into the business he has chosen for himself.
But for now, Herbert and Pip lead a fairly undisciplined life in London, enjoying
themselves and running up debts. Orlick reappears in Pips life, employed as
Miss Havishams porter, but is promptly fired by Jaggers after Pip reveals
Orlicks unsavory past. Mrs. Joe dies, and Pip goes home for the funeral,
feeling tremendous grief and remorse. Several years go by, until one night a
familiar figure barges into Pips roomthe convict, Magwitch, who stuns Pip
by announcing that he, not Miss Havisham, is the source of Pips fortune. He
tells Pip that he was so moved by Pips boyhood kindness that he dedicated
his life to making Pip a gentleman, and he made a fortune in Australia for that
very purpose.

Pip is appalled, but he feels morally bound to help Magwitch escape London,
as the convict is pursued both by the police and by Compeyson, his former
partner in crime. A complicated mystery begins to fall into place when Pip
discovers that Compeyson was the man who abandoned Miss Havisham at
the altar and that Estella is Magwitchs daughter. Miss Havisham has raised
her to break mens hearts, as revenge for the pain her own broken heart
caused her. Pip was merely a boy for the young Estella to practice on; Miss
Havisham delighted in Estellas ability to toy with his affections.

As the weeks pass, Pip sees the good in Magwitch and begins to care for him
deeply. Before Magwitchs escape attempt, Estella marries an upper-class lout
named Bentley Drummle. Pip makes a visit to Satis House, where Miss
Havisham begs his forgiveness for the way she has treated him in the past,
and he forgives her. Later that day, when she bends over the fireplace, her
clothing catches fire and she goes up in flames. She survives but becomes an
invalid. In her final days, she will continue to repent for her misdeeds and to
plead for Pips forgiveness.

The time comes for Pip and his friends to spirit Magwitch away from London.
Just before the escape attempt, Pip is called to a shadowy meeting in the
marshes, where he encounters the vengeful, evil Orlick. Orlick is on the verge
of killing Pip when Herbert arrives with a group of friends and saves Pips life.
Pip and Herbert hurry back to effect Magwitchs escape. They try to sneak
Magwitch down the river on a rowboat, but they are discovered by the police,
who Compeyson tipped off. Magwitch and Compeyson fight in the river, and
Compeyson is drowned. Magwitch is sentenced to death, and Pip loses his
fortune. Magwitch feels that his sentence is Gods forgiveness and dies at
peace. Pip falls ill; Joe comes to London to care for him, and they are
reconciled. Joe gives him the news from home: Orlick, after robbing
Pumblechook, is now in jail; Miss Havisham has died and left most of her
fortune to the Pockets; Biddy has taught Joe how to read and write. After Joe
leaves, Pip decides to rush home after him and marry Biddy, but when he
arrives there he discovers that she and Joe have already married.

Pip decides to go abroad with Herbert to work in the mercantile trade.


Returning many years later, he encounters Estella in the ruined garden at
Satis House. Drummle, her husband, treated her badly, but he is now dead.
Pip finds that Estellas coldness and cruelty have been replaced by a sad
kindness, and the two leave the garden hand in hand, Pip believing that they
will never part again. (N O T E : Dickenss original ending to Great
Expectations differed from the one described in this summary. The final
Summary and Analysis section of this SparkNote provides a description of the
first ending and explains why Dickens rewrote it.)

Persuasion is Jane Austen's last completed novel, published posthumously. She began it soon
after she had finished Emma and completed it in August 1816. Persuasion was published in
December 1817, but is dated 1818.[1] The author died earlier in 1817.
Persuasion opens with a brief history of the Elliot family as recorded in Sir
Walter Elliot's favorite book, The Baronetcy. We learn that the Elliots are a
respected, titled, landowning family. Lady Elliot, Sir Walter's wife died fourtee n
years ago and left him with three daughters: Elizabeth, Anne, and Mary. Both
Elizabeth and Anne are single, but Mary, the youngest is married to a wealthy
man named Charles Musgrove; they live close by. Sir Walter, who lavishly
overspend s, has brought the family into great debt. When Lady Russell, a
trusted family advisor, suggests that the Elliots reduce their spending, Sir
Walter is horrified. He is exceedingly vain and cannot bear to imagine life
without his usual comforts. But wi th no other option, the Elliots decide they
must relocate to a house in Bath where their expenses will be more
manageable. They intend to rent the family estate, Kellynch Hall.

They soon find excellent tenants to rent their home; Admiral and Mrs. Croft are
wealthy and well-mannered Navy people who have a model marriage. Sir
Walter is relieved that the Admiral is a good-looking man. Though Sir Walter
dislikes that the Navy br ings "men of obscure birth into undue distinction," he
is satisfied with Admiral and Mrs. Croft as tenants for his home. Anne Elliot,
the middle daughter, is also excited to meet the Crofts; Mrs. Croft is the sister
of the man Anne loves. Eight years ago, she was engaged to be married to
Captain Frederick Wentworth, but Lady Russell persuaded her that Captain
Wentworth was not of high enough consequence, and Anne called off the
engagement. With the Crofts at Kellynch, Anne hopes to see Captain Wentwor
th again.

Sir Walter, Elizabeth, and Mrs. Clay (a widowed, somewhat lower-class friend
of the family) leave for Bath. Anne goes to stay with her sister Mary at
Uppercross Cottage for a period of two months. Mary complains often and
Anne patiently listens to her sister's worries. At Uppercross, Anne finds the
Musgrove family absolutely delightful. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove have three
grown children: Charles (Mary's husband), Henrietta, and Louisa. Anne
marvels at the bustling nature of the household and the Musgroves' clear
affection for their children. Soon news comes that Captain Wentworth has
returned from sea and is staying with his sister at Kellynch. Captain
Wentworth makes friends with Mr. Musgrove, and he becomes a daily visitor
at Uppercross. A nne is at first anxious to see him again after such a long
time, but his actions toward her are merely detached and polite. He seems
more smitten with Henrietta and Louisa Musgrove. Anne resigns herself to the
idea that she has lost Captain Wentworth's lo ve forever.

Captain Wentworth proposes that they all take a trip to Lyme to go visit his
friends the Harvilles. While they are there, a good-looking gentleman takes
notice of Anne; they later discover that this man is Mr. Elliot, Anne's cousin
and Sir Walter' s heir to Kellynch. The group decides to go for a morning walk
on the beach. Louisa Musgrove has a bad fall and is knocked unconscious.
Anne keeps a level head and does all she can to care for Louisa. The doctor
determines that Louisa will recover, but sh e will have to remain in Lyme for
several months. Captain Wentworth blames himself for Louisa's fall and tries
to help the Musgrove family. Anne returns to Uppercross to help Mr. and Mrs.
Musgrove care for their younger children. After a few weeks, she le aves to
stay with Lady Russell.

After Christmas, Lady Russell and Anne decide that they must rejoin the rest
of the Elliot family in Bath, much to Anne's dismay. Sir Walter and Elizabeth
care little about her, but they are glad to have her come to Bath. In Bath, she
is formally introduc ed to her cousin Mr. Elliot, who has made peace with his
once estranged uncle, Sir Walter. Though she questions Mr. Elliot's motives
for his sudden apology, she accepts him as a pleasing gentleman. Mr. Elliot is
extraordinarily appreciative of Anne, and i t is soon apparent that he seeks to
make her his wife. While in Bath, Anne becomes reacquainted with an old
school friend, Mrs. Smith, who has recently been widowed and fallen on hard
times. From Mrs. Smith, Anne learns about Mr. Elliot's hidden past; she finds
out that he has mistreated Mrs. Smith and that he plans to marry Anne to
ensure that he becomes the sole heir of the Kellynch baronetcy. Mr. Elliot
fears that Sir Walter will marry Mrs. Clay, have a son, and thereby deprive him
of his title. He plots to ensure that he will remain Sir Walter's heir. Anne is
appalled to hear this news.

The Crofts arrive in Bath with news of two engagements; Henrietta will marry
her cousin Charles Hayter, and Louisa will marry Captain Benwick, a man she
met at Lyme while she was convalescing. Anne is overjoyed that Captain
Wentworth is not promis ed to Louisa and is free once again. Captain
Wentworth soon arrives in Bath. He is now a much richer man than he was
eight years ago and Sir Walter reluctantly admits him into their social circle.
Wentworth grows jealous because he believes Anne is attach ed to her cousin
Mr. Elliot. Yet he writes Anne a love letter in which is pours describes his true,
constant, and undying love for her. Anne is thrilled and they become engaged.
Mr. Elliot is shocked that his plan to marry Anne has been foiled. He and Mrs .
Clay leave Bath; it is rumored that they are together. There is no longer any
danger that Sir Walter will marry beneath his station. Sir Walter and Lady
Russell give their approval for the marriage between Anne and Captain
Wentworth.