Graceless. No other word for it, this pointless scrabble up the foothills, grasping in the dark for a foothold, only to feel it give way beneath his boot, clutching at gravel as he slid and caught himself and started anew, measuring his progress in scant feet. He'd skinned his hand, and stopped to marvel at it, the deep grazes illuminated under moonlight. A child's wound, he thought; not a shattered bone, nor a blade piercing skin-- just the surprise of uncomplicated pain, pure, and easy. Then a cloud passed overhead, obscuring the moonlight, and recalled him to himself. He began again, bolting upward, an escape which, if it did ameliorate his sorrow, at least distracted him with mild discomfort. Keeping his mind on the burn of muscle and the path ahead, he could almost pretend that his heart felt near to bursting from breathlessness rather than despair. He'd not gone very far from the camps, but far enough. Below, the little cooking fires flickered like distant stars. With little for tinder and an eye toward security over comfort, they'd thrown off no more heat than a star, in any case. He thought, with uncharacteristic [spoiledness] that had he been given more prescience, he might wish to have had one final night of comfort, of a hot meal and a roaring fire and a soft bed. Friends around him, voices softly weaving conversation and song. But even under the best of circumstances, that hadn't been the life he had chosen, but rather an occasional ___ therein. And it was too late now to rue the path he had chosen, for all that he had been given a choice. We are all in the service of fate, his father had told him once, and he had not known if he meant men in general, or the Dunedain in particular. In the service of the sword, more l... ... middle of paper ... ... continued, “a bondsman to Elu Thingol, or a brother-in-arms to Beleg Cuthalion." He paused for a moment, then, suddenly present again, shifted his gaze to Halbarad. "I, too, am fate's servant; I go where I am needed, and I am needed here more than I am there." The silver star of Earendil gleamed on Elladan's brow, reflecting the brilliant light of its Earendil himself. In their long years together, he often seen Elladan filthy or bloody, mud-stained or road-weary that one could readily overlook their noble stature. Tonight he stood like a beacon against the dark, fell and fair. “You are needed,” he replied, finding the words difficult to say. “All those years... so much lost time...you might've--” “--No.” Elladan's answer held all the finite of the unarguable, but he relented, and said, his tone bordering on wry, “One great drama is enough for my family, I think.”
The speaker in “Five A.M.” looks to nature as a source of beauty during his early morning walk, and after clearing his mind and processing his thoughts along the journey, he begins his return home feeling as though he is ready to begin the “uphill curve” (ln. 14) in order to process his daily struggles. However, while the speaker in “Five Flights Up,” shares the same struggles as her fellow speaker, she does little to involve herself in nature other than to observe it from the safety of her place of residence. Although suffering as a result of her struggles, the speaker does little to want to help herself out of her situation, instead choosing to believe that she cannot hardly bare recovery or to lift the shroud of night that has fallen over her. Both speakers face a journey ahead of them whether it be “the uphill curve where a thicket spills with birds every spring” (ln. 14-15) or the five flights of stares ahead of them, yet it is in their attitude where these two individuals differ. Through the appreciation of his early morning surroundings, the speaker in “Five A.M.” finds solitude and self-fulfillment, whereas the speaker in “Five Flights Up” has still failed to realize her own role in that of her recovery from this dark time in her life and how nature can serve a beneficial role in relieving her of her
As the story grows and unravels, we witness a clear shift in emotional generosity and acceptance in Narrator; he watches and listens to his brother, learning that his story isn’t as uncompressible as he once thought.
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.” (5.3) Yet just a short time later he demands news about his enemy and for his armor for protection.
Even with his prayer, and his wine-induced courage, the speaker still despairs. He compares himself to “the poor jerk who wanders out on air and then looks down” and “below his feet, he sees eternity,” when he realizes that “suddenly his shoes no longer work on nothingness” (5.12-15). It is as though he is submitting to the reality that, if he steps beyond the safe borders of the proven approaches to writing, there is no magic potion that will guarantee his success. Nevertheless, he appears to be willing to take his chances, and, ironically, he does so with this prayer, which is stylistically unconventional. In a desperate attempt to remind his readers that he was once considered a good writer in the event that this poem does not meet their traditional standards, he makes one final request: “As I fall past, remember me” (5.16).
“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.
I had been for some Hours extremely pressed by the Necessities of Nature; which was no Wonder, it being almost two Days since I had last disburthened myself. I was under great Difficulties between Urgency and Shame. The best Expedient I could think on, was to creep into my House, which I accordingly did; and shutting the Gate after me, I went as far as the Length of my Chain would suffer, and discharged my Body of that uneasy Load.
guard and says 'all who live by the sword, will die by the sword.' And
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
In the Anglo-Saxon poem “The Seafarer,” an Anglo-Saxon man is taken away from his home by the forceful, sweeping sea. The man’s home was the mead-hall, where he and other warriors lived and followed under a lord or king. When the man was absent from his home, he at first felt much anxiety and pain. Although this man was in exile
He had to leave and find what he has been craving so greatly for a big portion of his life. He might of left his father, but that does not mean he did not love his father, he loved his father a great deal; however did he love his father too much?
Author unknown “Beowulf.” The Norton Anthology Of Poetry. shorter fifth edition. Ferguson, Margaret W. , Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy. New York, New York: W W Norton , 2005. 2-9. Print.
“I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
…for we shall duel in a sword battle. The weaker man will be fed to the eager hounds.”
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.
An occasional poem, “A Darkling Thrush” depicts the setting of one century and the birth of another through the narrator’s eyes. Leaning perhaps wearily on the coppice gate, the narrator observes how even the people that haunt the land like soulless wanderers (7) return to their homes where brightly shine their fires, a ...