Identifications Flashcards by Lauren Banks

My mother groaned, my father wept,

Into the dangerous world I leapt;

“Infant Sorrow”, William Blake

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Struggling in my father’s hands,

Striving against my swaddling bands,

“Infant Sorrow”, William Blake

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Bound and weary, I thought best

To sulk upon my mother’s breast.

“Infant Sorrow”, William Blake

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The children go forward with their little satchels.

And all morning the mothers have labored

to gather the late apples, red and gold,

like words of another language.

“The School Children”, Louise Glück

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And on the other shore

are those who wait behind great desks

to receive these offerings.

“The School Children”, Louise Glück

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How orderly they are — the nails

on which the children hang

their overcoats of blue or yellow wool.

“The School Children”, Louise Glück

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He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

“The Human Seasons”, John Keats

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And the teachers shall instruct them in silence

and the mothers shall scour the orchards for a way out,

drawing to themselves the gray limbs of the fruit trees

bearing so little ammunition.

“The School Children”, Louise Glück

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They’re waiting to be murdered,
Or evicted. Soon
They expect to have nothing to eat.
In the meantime, they sit.

“Old Couple”, Charles Simic

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A violent pain is coming, they think.
It will start in the heart
And climb into the mouth.
They’ll be carried off in stretchers, howling.

“Old Couple”, Charles Simic

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Tonight they watch the window
Without exchanging a word.
It has rained, and now it looks
Like it’s going to snow a little.

“Old Couple”, Charles Simic

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Helpless, naked, piping loud,

Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

“Infant Sorrow”, William Blake

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I see him get up to lower the shades.
If their window stays dark,
I know his hand has reached hers
Just as she was about to turn on the lights.

“Old Couple”, Charles Simic

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Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man:

“The Human Seasons”, John Keats

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He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

“The Human Seasons”, John Keats

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He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

“The Human Seasons”, John Keats

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Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

“We Real Cool”, Gwendolyn Brooks

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Left school. We

“We Real Cool”, Gwendolyn Brooks

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Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

“We Real Cool”, Gwendolyn Brooks

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Jazz June. We

Die soon.

“We Real Cool”, Gwendolyn Brooks

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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

“Sonnet 60”, William Shakespeare

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Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

“Sonnet 60”, William Shakespeare

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Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:

“Sonnet 60”, William Shakespeare

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And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

“Sonnet 60”, William Shakespeare

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No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course With rocks, and stones, and trees.

“A Slumber Did My spirit Seal”, William Wordsworth

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

“The Sun Rising”, John Donne

Glory be to God for dappled things – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

“Pied Beauty”, Gerard Manley Hopkins

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

“Pied Beauty”, Gerard Manley Hopkins

All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

“Pied Beauty”, Gerard Manley Hopkins

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: | Praise him.

“Pied Beauty”, Gerard Manley Hopkins

Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

“The Sun Rising”, John Donne

She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.

“The Sun Rising”, John Donne

Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

“The Sun Rising”, John Donne

I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

“A Slumber Did My spirit Seal”, William Wordsworth

Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

“The Sun Rising”, John Donne

And then, excuse from pain- And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering;

“The Heart asks Pleasure – first –”, Emily Dickinson

And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.

“The Heart asks Pleasure – first –”, Emily Dickinson

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”, John Keats

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”, John Keats

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken;

“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”, John Keats

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”, John Keats

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.

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, Robert Frost

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.

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, Robert Frost

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

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, Robert Frost

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.

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, Robert Frost

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

“Sonnet 30”, William Shakespeare

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:

“Sonnet 30”, William Shakespeare

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before.

“Sonnet 30”, William Shakespeare

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, | All losses are restored and sorrows end.

“Sonnet 30”, William Shakespeare

Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

“The Emperor of Ice-Cream”, Wallace Stevens

Bring flowers in last month's newspapers. | Let be be finale of seem.

“The Emperor of Ice-Cream”, Wallace Stevens

Take from the dresser of deal. Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet On which she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face.

“The Emperor of Ice-Cream”, Wallace Stevens

Some secret we both know and have never spoken? Some sentence that could flood with light your life, mine?

“Mother-in-Law”, Adrienne Rich

Lately, I hear it: Tell me something true, daughter-in-law, before we part, tell me something true before I die

“Mother-in-Law”, Adrienne Rich

What do mothers ask their own daughters, everywhere in the world? Is there a question? Ask me something.

“Mother-in-Law”, Adrienne Rich

I can polish this table to satin because I don't care I am trying to tell you, I envy the people in mental hospitals their freedom and I can't live on placebos or Valium, like you

“Mother-in-Law”, Adrienne Rich

Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you--- Then, it will be true.

“Theme for English B”, Langston Hughes

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.

“Theme for English B”, Langston Hughes

As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me--- although you're older---and white--- and somewhat more free.

“Theme for English B”, Langston Hughes

If listened, an engine shunting | And a trotting horse.

“Terminus”, Seamus Heaney

If listened, an engine shunting | And a trotting horse.

“Terminus”, Seamus Heaney

Under the too white marmoreal Lincoln Memorial, the too tall marmoreal Washington Obelisk, gazing into the too long reflecting pool,

“The March 1”, Robert Lowell

the notables, the girls … fear, glory, chaos, rout… our green army staggered out on the miles–long green fields, met by the other army, the Martian, the ape, the hero, his newfangled rifle, his green new steel helmet.

“The March 1”, Robert Lowell

then to step off like green Union Army recruits | for the first Bull Run, sped by photographers,

“The March 1”, Robert Lowell

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

“Dulce et Decorum Est”, Wilfred Owen

In all my dreams before my helpless sight, | He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

“Dulce et Decorum Est”, Wilfred Owen

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

“Dulce et Decorum Est”, Wilfred Owen

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

“Dulce et Decorum Est”, Wilfred Owen

Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods and to compounds strange?

“Sonnet 76”, William Shakespeare

Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth and where they did proceed?

“Sonnet 76”, William Shakespeare

O, know, sweet love, I always write of you, And you and love are still my argument; So all my best is dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent:

“Sonnet 76”, William Shakespeare

For as the sun is daily new and old, | So is my love still telling what is told.

“Sonnet 76”, William Shakespeare

Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme— why are they no help to me now I want to make something imagined, not recalled?

“Epilogue”, Robert Lowell

``` But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eye seems a snapshot, lurid, rapid, garish, grouped, heightened from life, yet paralyzed by fact. ```

“Epilogue”, Robert Lowell

All’s misalliance. Yet why not say what happened? Pray for the grace of accuracy

“Epilogue”, Robert Lowell

We are poor passing facts, warned by that to give each figure in the photograph his living name.

“Epilogue”, Robert Lowell

It is not the moon, I tell you. It is these flowers lighting the yard.

“Mock Orange”, Louise Glück

How can I rest? How can I be content when there is still that odor in the world?

“Mock Orange”, Louise Glück

I hear the question and pursuing answer fused in one sound that mounts and mounts and then is split into the old selves,

“Mock Orange”, Louise Glück

the tired antagonisms. Do you see? We were made fools of. And the scent of mock orange drifts through the window.

“Mock Orange”, Louise Glück

The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look, look at all the history, that house on the hill there is over two hundred years old, '