rssenglishworld, The English Literature and Grammar Digest

ULYSSES by Alfred Lord Tennyson It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags,  Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole  Unequal laws unto a savage race. That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the legs: all times I have enjoy'd  Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those  That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when  Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades  Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;  For always roaming with a hungry heart  Much have I seen and known; cities of men  And manners, climates, councils, governments,  Myself not least, but honour'd of them all  And drunk delight of battle with my peers,  Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.  I am a part of all that I have met;  Yet all experiences is an arch wherethro'; Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades  For ever and for ever when I mov...

My Financial Career  by Stephen Leacock When  I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me.  The moment I cross the  threshold of a bank and attempt to transact business there, I become an irresponsible idiot.  I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it.  So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account must consult the manager. I went up to a wicket marked 'Accountant'. The accountant was a tall, cool  devil.  The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral.  'Can I see the manager?' I said, and added solemnly, 'alone'. I don't know why I said 'alone',  'Certainly,' said the accountant and fetched him.  The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled b...

The World Is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. "The World Is Too Much With Us" — by William Wordsworth Paraphrased Line by Line 1. The world is too much with us; late and soon, People are overly concerned with material things, it happens later or sooner. 2. Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— We waste our human abilities and potential in the constant cyc...

The Express by Stephen Spender A fter the first powerful plain manifesto The black statement of pistons, without more fuss But gliding like a queen, she leaves the station. Without bowing and with restrained unconcern She passes the houses which humbly crowd outside, The gasworks and at last the heavy page Of death, printed by gravestones in the cemetery. Beyond the town there lies the open country Where, gathering speed, she acquires mystery, The luminous self-possession of ships on ocean. It is now she begins to sing—at first quite low Then loud, and at last with a jazzy madness— The song of her whistle screaming at curves, Of deafening tunnels, brakes, innumerable bolts. And always light, aerial, underneath Goes the elate metre of her wheels. Steaming through metal landscape on her lines She plunges new eras of wild happiness Where speed throws up strange shapes, broad curves And parallels clean like the steel of guns. At last, further than Edinburgh or Rome, Beyond the crest of the...