Thursday, July 23, 2009

RED RED ROSE


O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE
Red, Red Rose By Robert Burns Written in 1794
"O, My Luve's Like a Red, Red Rose" is reprinted from English Poems.
Ed. Edward Chauncey Baldwin & Harry G. Paul. New York: American Book Company, 1908.
by: Robert Burns (1759-1796)

I
O, MY Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my Luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

II

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

III

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

IV

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!









"O, My Luve's Like a Red, Red Rose" is reprinted from English Poems. Ed. Edward Chauncey Baldwin & Harry G. Paul. New York: American Book Company, 1908.

Theme

Burns clearly states and restates the theme: The speaker loves the young lady beyond measure. The only way he can express his love for her is through vivid similes and hyperbolic comparisons.


In the first stanza, the speaker presents two similes, the first comparing his love to a rose and the second comparing his love to a melody. The speaker also uses repetition to echo his sentiments--my luve's like in lines 1 and 3; that's newly and that's sweetly (pronoun, verb, and adverb combinations) in lines 2 and 4.

The second stanza addresses the young lady as bonnie (pretty), a word derived from the French word bon (good). In the last line of the stanza, a' means all and gang means go. This line introduces to the poem hyperbole, a figure of speech that exaggerates.

The speaker links the first line of the third stanza with the last line of the second stanza by repetition. The speaker continues hyperbole in the second and fourth lines. He also again relies on repetition in the third line by repeating the third line of the second stanza.

In the fourth stanza, the speaker again addresses his beloved, noting that though he must leave her for a while he will return for her even if he must travel ten thousand miles. Repetition occurs in the first and second lines, and hyperbole occurs in the last line.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Milk for the Cat

Harold Monro


Original text: Strange Meetings: Poems By Harold Monro
(Wiltshire: Laurel Books, 2003): 46-47.
First publication date: 1915
Publication date note: Georgian Poetry 2 (1915);
Collected Poems, ed. Alida Monro, with prefaces by F. S. Flint and T. S. Eliot (London: Cobden-Sanderson, 1933): 162-63.
RPO poem editor: Ian LancashireRP edition: 2004Recent editing: 1:2004/6/10
Composition date: 1914
Form: quatrains
Rhyme: abcbdefe...









Milk for the Cat
When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour,
She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,And her independent casual glance'Milk for the Cat'

When the tea is brought at five o'clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour,
She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,
And her independent casual glance
Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.

Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
One breathing, trembling purr.

The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
The two old ladies stroke their silk:
But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.

The white saucer like some full moon descends
At last from the clouds of the table above;
She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
Transfigured with love.

She nestles over the shining rim,
Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
Is doubled under each bending knee.

A long, dim ecstasy holds her life;
Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
Then she sinks back into the night,

Draws and dips her body to heap
Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
Lies defeated and buried deep
Three or four hours unconscious there.

-- Harold Monro