Poetry Selections

The Ancient Mariner

This is actually our Memory work.

I can't think of anything nicer than having a store of poems in one's memory to draw upon in times of idle reflection, or even, in need.

In the past, I have tried to pick poems that sound wonderful to the ear, that use language powerfully to create a word picture or tell a story.

This year, I'm adding in at least one "moral" poem.

I type out the poem into the computer (or cut and past from here) and try and put in a "box" for an illustration. (This works really well in Word).

We read the selected poem every morning. You would be amazed how quickly you can memorize something by simply saying three times every day! When the children can recite it without looking at their sheet, we call Grandy and invite her over to listen. I also use a line or two, or a verse for copy work and dictation.

It works really well.

I'd like to assemble the sheets into a notebook for them to keep for their own children, perhaps.

Here are our selections for memory work until Christmas:

The Flies and the Honey Pot
by Aesop
(from the Book of Virtues ed. by William J. Bennett)

A jar of honey chanced to spill
Its contents on the windowsill
In many a viscous pool and rill.

The flies, attracted by the sweet,
Began so greedily to eat,
They smeared their fragile wings and feet.

With many a twitch and pull in vain
They gasped to get away again,
And died in aromatic pain.

Moral:
O foolish creatures that destroy
Themselves for transitory joy.



The Splendour Falls
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.
O love they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field, or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.



I Dug and Dug Amongst the Snow
by Christina Rossetti,
1830-1894

I dug and dug amongst the snow,
And thought the flowers would never grow;
I dug and dug amongst the sand,
And still no green thing came to hand.

Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow
To thaw the flowers and melt the snow;
But all the winds from every land
Will rear no blossom from the sand.



A Slash of Blue
By Emily Dickinson

A slash of Blue --
A sweep of Gray --
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky --
A little purple -- slipped between --
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on --
A Wave of Gold --
A Bank of Day --
This just makes out the Morning Sky.



I hope that'll do.