She stood there as the world passed her by. Ever since she came into the world, it has turned its back to her. Shunned her and continued on their way, without a second glance. She stood in the background of life, watching the forgotten beauties that everyone had forgotten, like her. Even now she leaned up against a tall oak tree that stretched out across the sky, long limps twisting together and bright green leaves scattered about. The old tree had been there for a long time, and yet everyone that passed by was too busy to take in the grandness of what surrounded them. However, every flower that pressed through the cracks of the broken sidewalk, every bird that flew across the sky, every creature that walked by her she would stand in wonder. After all they were, like her, an outcast, forgotten, and unwanted. She never belonged to the world, and she knew that no matter how much she desperately tried to reach out, no one would notice her, no one ever did, and no one ever will. Even if she had every right to loath the world that had left her behind, she couldn’t, because even after wit...
In the stanzas of Elizabeth Bishop’s poem, the speaker very honestly observes the scenes from outside her apartment. From her point of view, she sees a both a bird and a dog in the process of sleeping. The speaker views these animals as having simple lives unbothered by endless questions or worries. Instead, the two live peaceful, uninterrupted existences, rising every morning knowing that “everything is answered” (ln. 22). However, the speaker lives in contrast to this statement instead anxiously awaiting the next day where uncertainty is a likely possibility. Unlike the dog and the bird, the speaker cannot sit passively by as the world continues in its cycle and she carries a variety of emotions, such as a sense of shame. It is evident here that the speaker has gone through or is currently undergoing some sort of struggle. When she states that “Yesterday brought to today so lightly!” she does so in longing for the world to recognize her for her issues by viewing the earth’s graces as so light of actions, and in doing so, she fails to recognize that she can no longer comprehend the beauty of nature that it offers her. In viewing the light hitting the trees as “gray light streaking each bare branch” (ln. 11), she only sees the monotony of the morning and condescends it to merely “another tree” (ln. 13.) To her, the morning is something
It was a sunny day with a sweet aroma of blooming tulips. The sunlight glittered on their faces as the breeze rattled the chestnut tree above. There was an occasional giggle as they talked, but there was also a hint of discomfort and awkwardness between them as they peeked at each other’s face and recoiled when the other looked up. When the bell rang twice, I saw them say goodbye and walk away from each other. In the darkness of the crowd, a glimmer flashed into my eyes from Hannah’s cheeks.
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. ( This description of the scenery is very happy, usually not how one sees the world after hearing devastating news of her husbands death.)
The arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
The wind whispered outside my flower curtains. My Rosemary garden swayed to the noiseless tune. I sit quietly watching their soft movement, the flowers I worked hard to nurse. The rest of my yard remained parched, with time it had given defeat to the hot Alabama sky.I glared at the cracked dirt, cursing it for giving in to the pressure, praying I won't do the same .I sip the cool lemon ice tea, the cubes of ice brush on my dry lips.
After I found my favorite oak tree, I sat Indian-style and leaned back on it's rough, yet comfortable trunks. I glanced at the cover page and wondered how this book could possibly impact my life. Slowly cracking the book open, I began reading. “Once there was a tree….and she loved a little boy...” the words flowed in my head “...[but] time went by/And the boy grew older/And the tree was often alone.” Great, another love story. I sighed heavily and continued reading. Page after page, I was eventually hooked and found myself lost in reading.
She continues in this sequel to talk about the abuse she faced and the dysfunction that surrounded her life as a child and as a teen, and the ‘empty space’ in which she lived in as a result. She talks about the multiple personalities she was exhibiting, the rebellious “Willie” and the kind “Carol”; as well as hearing noises and her sensory problems. In this book, the author puts more emphasis on the “consciousness” and “awareness” and how important that was for her therapeutic process. She could not just be on “auto-pilot” and act normal; the road to recovery was filled with self-awareness and the need to process all the pieces of the puzzle—often with the guidance and assistance of her therapist. She had a need to analyze the abstract concept of emotions as well as feelings and thoughts. Connecting with others who go through what she did was also integral to her
After locking her self in the solitude of her bedroom she begins to recognize things that one would not think of after a loved one just passed away. " She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life (paragraph 5)." This is the point at witch she begins to deal with the grieving process, but also starts to realize the beauty of life. She begins to see that ...
My walk along Highland Park surrounded by with the water’s quiet flow that moves through the land, separating the two sides that were once connected. The waterfowl escape the heat of the sun by swimming happily with the current and in the process, diving to catch lunch. Trees are scattered all over the grass, soaring high above the ground creating homes for those who live by the sky. The dirt, leaves, bark, and water create the smell best classified as Earth, enriched by the uprooted trees from Mother Nature’s wrath. An old giant lay across the water connecting the two sides once again, similarly to the synthetic bridge conveniently located before the trees begin to hug the road.
We slowly crept around the corner, finally sneaking a peek at our cabin. As I hopped out of the front seat of the truck, a sharp sense of loneliness came over me. I looked around and saw nothing but the leaves on the trees glittering from the constant blowing wind. Catching myself standing staring around me at all the beautiful trees, I noticed that the trees have not changed at all, but still stand tall and as close as usual. I realized that the trees surrounding the cabin are similar to the being of my family: the feelings of never being parted when were all together staying at our cabin.
The poem “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth is about the poet’s mental journey in nature where he remembers the daffodils that give him joy when he is lonely and bored. The poet is overwhelmed by nature’s beauty where he thought of it while lying alone on his couch. The poem shows the relationship between nature and the poet, and how nature’s motion and beauty influences the poet’s feelings and behaviors for the good. Moreover, the process that the speaker goes through is recollected that shows that he isolated from society, and is mentally in nature while he is physically lying on his couch. Therefore, William Wordsworth uses figurative language and syntax and form throughout the poem to express to the readers the peace and beauty of nature, and to symbolize the adventures that occurred in his mental journey.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.
The sun was still below the horizon but the clouds above the mountains were tainted the color of pomegranates. Around me the shadows seemed empty. I tried not to look into the brush as I walked down the driveway. I had stopped before, looking to see the back of the shadows; staring hard, only to have them retreat from my eyes indefinitely. Invisible birds called from within. Their sound followed me down the driveway and onto the road.