His 102- Unit 6

1)Read chapter 20 in Coffin/Stacey. (read something about Coffin/Stacey and write just one pragpragh about it)

2)read some selections of Romantic Poems and write a one-page paper in which you examine some of the main characteristics of the Romantic era.  Please be sure to include quoted material.

Romantic Poems: Samuel Coleridge, "Kubla Khan" (1798)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree; 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round; 
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced; 
Amid whose swift, half-intermittent burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail.

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw. 
It was an Abyssinian maid, 
And on her dulcimer she played, 
Singing of Mount Abora. 
`Could I revive within me 
Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

William Wordsworth, "The Solitary Reaper" (1807)

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lassl 
leaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently passl 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strahl; 
O listen for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 
No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shally haunt, 
Among Arabian sands: 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 
Will no one tell me what she sings? 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers Row 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago: 
Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pails, 
That has been, and may l e again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle beating: 
I listened, motionless and still; 
And, as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore, 
Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth, "I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud" (1807)

I wandered lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
Wheel all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they 
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 
A poet could not but be gay, 
In such a jocund company: 
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Stanzas" (1814)

Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon. 
Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even; 
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon. 
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries, Away! 
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: 
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; 
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; 
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, 
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head: The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: 
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, 
Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, 
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep: Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; 
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest--yet till the phantoms flee 
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, 
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.

John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale" (1819)

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thine happiness,-- 
that thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated case.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been 
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country green, 
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night, 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms anti winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 
To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- 
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 
No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 
In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 
Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep?

3)explain what Marx meant when he stated that he "had stood Hegel on his head" (Or something to that extent) in a one-page paper.