QUIETUS

Edited by Lauren Dotson

Ms. Wheeler
English Comp II
23 March 2015

Dotson 2
Table of Contents

Introduction...page 3

Sonnet LXXIV, William Shakespeare.......page 4

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frostpage 5

Because I Could Not Stop for Death, by Emily Dickenson..page 6

Mad Girls Love Song, by Sylvia Plath.page 7

Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath..page 8

The Lady of Shalott, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.page 11

Ode to the Confederate Dead, by Allen Tatepage 16

Lycidas, by John Miltonpage 19

Written Responses to Each Poem..page 24

Visual Representation...page 29

Works Cited.....page 30

Dotson 3

Introduction from the Editor


Poetry has always been one of my passions. When I was a child, my parents
bought be a collection of famous poems by English writers. Among the various
works of William Wordsworth, John Keats, and Robert Browning, there was one
singular poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. The Lady of Shalott was my favorite
poem during my childhood, and stills hold my attention to this day. There was sort
of strange magic that enraptured me when I first read it all those years ago. In
particular, the way the author phrased The Lady dying sent chills down my spine- in
a good way.

Any can write about love, but a poet is talented if they can say something new

about it. The same is true for death and dying. Death is personified, symbolized,
defied, embraced, a fact of life, and something entirely spiritual. Death is both a good
friend greeting poets with open arms and a ghastly stranger that has to drag them
screaming.

Many of these poems are personal favorites, as well as the authors

themselves. Only choosing two of Sylvia Plaths poems was a struggle. The vast
majority of these are considered classics as well. However, highlighting the
differences between each authors opinion of death, Death (capitalization noted),
and dying can be a rewarding experience. After all, it is the promise that life will one
day cease that makes everyday count.

Dotson 4

Sonnet LXXIV
William Shakespeare

But be contented when that fell arrest

Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.

Dotson 5
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Dotson 6

Because I Could Not Stop For Death

Emily Dickenson

Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The Carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess in the Ring
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain
We passed the Setting Sun

Or rather He passed us
The Dews drew quivering and chill
For only Gossamer, my Gown
My Tippet only Tulle

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground
The Roof was scarcely visible
The Cornice in the Ground

Since then tis Centuries and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses Heads
Were toward Eternity

Dotson 7

Mad Girls Love Song

Sylvia Plath

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)




God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Dotson 8

Lady Lazarus

Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Dotson 9

Them unwrap me hand and foot--

The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say Ive a call.

Its easy enough to do it in a cell.
Its easy enough to do it and stay put.
Its the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

Dotson 10

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Dotson 11

The Lady of Shalott

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Part I.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Dotson 12

Part II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Dotson 13

Part III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,

Dotson 14


She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold ser in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right
The leaves upon her falling light
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Dotson 15

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Dotson 16

Ode to the Confederate Dead

Allen Tate

Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.

Autumn is desolation in the plot
Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
Think of the autumns that have come and gone!--
Ambitious November with the humors of the year,
With a particular zeal for every slab,
Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot
On the slabs, a wing chipped here, an arm there:
The brute curiosity of an angels stare
Turns you, like them, to stone,
Transforms the heaving air
Till plunged to a heavier world below
You shift your sea-space blindly
Heaving, turning like the blind crab.

Dazed by the wind, only the wind
The leaves flying, plunge

You know who have waited by the wall
The twilight certainty of an animal,
Those midnight restitutions of the blood
You know--the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze
Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,
The cold pool left by the mounting flood,
Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.
You who have waited for the angry resolution
Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,
You know the unimportant shrift of death

Dotson 17

And praise the vision

And praise the arrogant circumstance
Of those who fall
Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision--
Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.

Seeing, seeing only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire

Turn your eyes to the immoderate past,
Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising
Demons out of the earth they will not last.
Stonewall, Stonewall, and the sunken fields of hemp,
Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run.
Lost in that orient of the thick and fast
You will curse the setting sun.

Cursing only the leaves crying
Like an old man in a storm

You hear the shout, the crazy hemlocks point
With troubled fingers to the silence which
Smothers you, a mummy, in time.

The hound bitch
Toothless and dying, in a musty cellar
Hears the wind only.

Now that the salt of their blood
Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea,
Seals the malignant purity of the flood,
What shall we who count our days and bow
Our heads with a commemorial woe
In the ribboned coats of grim felicity,
What shall we say of the bones, unclean,
Whose verdurous anonymity will grow?
The ragged arms, the ragged heads and eyes
Lost in these acres of the insane green?
The gray lean spiders come, they come and go;
In a tangle of willows without light
The singular screech-owls tight
Invisible lyric seeds the mind

Dotson 18

With the furious murmur of their chivalry.

We shall say only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire

We shall say only the leaves whispering
In the improbable mist of nightfall
That flies on multiple wing:
Night is the beginning and the end
And in between the ends of distraction
Waits mute speculation, the patient curse
That stones the eyes, or like the jaguar leaps
For his own image in a jungle pool, his victim.

What shall we say who have knowledge
Carried to the heart? Shall we take the act
To the grave? Shall we, more hopeful, set up the grave
In the house? The ravenous grave?

Leave now
The shut gate and the decomposing wall:
The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush,
Riots with his tongue through the hush--
Sentinel of the grave who counts us all!

Dotson 19

Lycidas
John Milton

Yet once more, O ye laurels and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And as he passes turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill,
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose, at evening, bright,
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to the oaten flute;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
But O! the heavy change now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copses green,

Dotson 20
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better done as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glist'ring foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy meed."
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood;
But now my oat proceeds,

Dotson 21
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea.
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked promontory:
They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
"Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?"
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake.
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake
"How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said;
But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast

Dotson 22
Their bells and flowrets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth;
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and singing in their glory move,

Dotson 23
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropped into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

Dotson 24
Responses to Each Poem:
Sonnet LXXIV:

William Shakespeares Sonnet LXXIV is a sonnet. The speaker is telling

someone, possibly a lover or friend, not to be upset when he dies. He will survive
through his words, like this poem itself. As long as the recipient remembers his
spirit, then the only thing death will take is his body, which isnt worth mourning.
Shakespeare uses figurative language by personifying the earth, saying that his body
is the earths due. The tone of the poem is positive, although his description of his
bodys demise is gruesome.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Day:

At first glance, Robert Frosts lyric poem is out of place in this collection. It

may seem a straightforward piece about nature, but there is a darker undercurrent.
On the surface, it is a poem about wanting to stop in the woods, but moving on from
that want because the speaker has someplace to be (promises to keep). Many have
interpreted the poem as being about death, suicide in particular. The speaker wants
to stop living, because death seems like a release. He decides not to, because he has
something to live for (the promises). The tone and mood of the poem can be
interpreted differently as well. Describing the woods as dark does not necessary
imply that they are bad. By using an extended metaphor with the implication of the
woods being death or some form of afterlife, Frost weaves a complex narrative.

Dotson 25
Because I Could Not Stop for Death:

Emily Dickensons Because I Could Not Stop for Death is a unique elegy.

Instead of mourning a friend, the speaker has passed (centuries ago, as the twist line
towards the end reveals) and is greeted by Death- who is the perfect gentleman.
Dickenson uses personification to show a person that is embracing dying. Because of
the personification, the poem has a bouncy tone and lighthearted mood, with the
relationship between the speaker and Death resembling courtship.

Mad Girls Love Song:

The villanelle in this collection is Sylvia Plaths Mad Girls Love Song. The

poem is about a person who is either driven mad by love or is already mentally
unstable and dreamed up their lover. The speaker uses personification of stars to
make a comparison between them and her lover. The stars waltz out of her life in
the same way her lover did. Death is shown in the poem every time the speaker
shuts her eyes; there is no point in life without the person she loves. The tone of the
poem is melancholy and schizophrenic. The speaker is simultaneously sadden over
her past love and delirious over them. The repetition of the lines I shut my eyes and
all the world drops dead;/ (I think I made you up in my head) is traditional to the
villanelle style of poem, but is used to great affect to show the speakers obsession.

Dotson 26
Lady Lazarus:

This poem is a dramatic monologue from the viewpoint of a woman who

cannot die. The woman recants to the reader about who she cannot stay dead; the
first time she died, she was ten and it was an accident. The next time, she tried to
commit suicide. She has just died for the third time. Swearing that the fourth time
will be the last, she resolves to take charge over those who would keep bringing her
back. The poem has several metaphors and a ton of symbolism in it. Lady Lazarus
compares those that oppress her to Nazis and herself to the Jewish people. This is to
easily show the reader that Lady Lazarus is being oppressed in some way. Later,
Lady Lazarus says, I am your opus/ I am your valuable/ The pure gold baby. This
is both a metaphor and an ironic statement. The Nazis did not care what happened
to the Jewish people and the doctors do not care what happens to her, even though
they consider her valuable. The mood is this poem is very dark, especially at first.
The talk of death and wanting to die is can be hard to read, as is the latter mention of
a cake of soap (the Nazis would make soap out of the dead bodies of concentration
camp prisoners). However, the power has rising action. In the beginning, the
speaker is powerless. By the end, she warning both God and Lucifer to watch out-
shes in charge now.

Dotson 27
The Lady of Shalott:

This poem is a ballad about the titular Lady of Shalott. Based on the legend of

Elaine of Astolat, this poem is about a young woman who has to continually weave
and not look at the outside world from her tower. Seeing a group of knights pass by
outside, she looks outside and stops her weaving, and is therefor cursed. Discarding
her loom, she travels outside and drifts down a river in a boat. The group of knights
find her body and comment on how lovely she looks. Tennyson uses several types of
figurative language in his poems, the most prominent of which is personification.
The broad stream in his banks complaining shows a stream complaining, which is
an entirely human quality. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, / Little breezes dusk and
shiver are other lines that show aspects of nature behaving like humans. All of his
personification of nature adds to the tone in the poem, which is somber and
mystical. The Lady of Shalott reads like a fairy-tale: full of magic, warning, and
true love slightly missed.

Ode to the Confederate Dead:

In this ode, a man traveling in the South comes upon a cemetery full of

Confederate soldiers. He mourns the loss of life and contemplates his own morality.
The poem makes use of ironic statements to show that the narrator is afraid of
death. The most obvious example of this is in the lines Autumn is desolation in the
plot/ Of a thousand acres where these memories grow/ From the inexhaustible
bodies that are not/ Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row. He wants to deny
that men he considers heroes could be taken so easily; after all, if theyre dead, what

Dotson 28
hope has he? The tone is formal, but the narrators own stream on consciousness
can get dark at points.

Lycidas:

The final poem in this collection is a pastoral poem. This poem is about the

narrator lamenting his dead friend Lycidas. Both were shepherds together, as well
as men of god. In between his laments, the speaker demands to know what higher
power/ mystical being would let a good man die. At the end of the poem, the
speaker realizes that Lycidas is dead and blaming others wont bring him back, but
Lycidas is reborn in heaven. One of the techniques Milton uses to show the speakers
despair is by having him ask the waves and winds why Lycidas had to die, but The
knew not his story. The tone and mood of the poem is melancholy, although the
ending is hopeful.

Dotson 29

Visual Representation:
This is supposed to be Mad Girls Love Song. There is a slightly creepy girl with her
eyes closed, blue and red star background with plenty of black, and a sihouette of a
lover.

Dotson 30
Works Cited

Dickenson, Emily. "Because I Could Not Stop for Death." Poets.org. Academy of
American Poets, n.d. Web. 16 Mar. 2015.
Frost, Robert. "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." Poetry Foundation. Poetry
Foundation, n.d. Web. 25 Feb. 2015.
Milton, John. "Lycidas." The John Milton Reading Room. Dartmouth College, n.d. Web.
23 Mar. 2015.
Plath, Sylvia. "Lady Lazarus." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets, n.d. Web. 23
Mar. 2015.
Plath, Sylvia. "Mad Girl's Love Song." Neurotic Poets. N.p., n.d. Web. 22 Mar. 2015.
Shakespeare, William. "Sonnet LXXIV." Shakespeare Online. Massachusetts Institute
of Technology, n.d. Web. 23 Mar. 2015.
Tate, Allen. "Ode to the Confederate Dead." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets,
n.d. Web. 23 Mar. 2015.
Tennyson, Alfred. "The Lady of Shalott (1842 Version)." Robbins Library Digital
Projects. University of Rochester, n.d. Web. 23 Mar. 2015.