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Transcript of Sonnets!
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Sonnet- a poem with fourteen lines
Octave- group of eight lines
Sestet- group of six lines
Volta- turn in thought
Quatrain- group of four lines
Couplet- group of two lines
The English and the Italian Sonnet
I Find No Peace
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise--
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
History of the Sonnet!
Shall I compare thee to a summer's
Thou art more lovely and more
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of
And summer's lease hath all too short a
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven
And often is his gold complexion
And every fair from fair sometime
By chance, or nature's changing course
But thy eternal summer shall not
Nor lose possession of that fair thou
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his
When in eternal lines to time thou
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can
So long lives this, and this gives life to
To My Brothers
SMALL, busy flames play through the fresh laid
And their faint cracklings o’er our silence
Like whispers of the household gods that
A gentle empire o’er fraternal
And while, for rhymes, I search around the
Your eyes are fix’d, as in poetic
Upon the lore so voluble and
That aye at fall of night our care
This is your birth-day Tom, and I
That thus it passes smoothly,
Many such eves of gently whisp’ring
May we together pass, and calmly
What are this world’s true joys,—ere the great
From its fair face, shall bid our spirits
John Keats! (1795-1821)
Turn back the heart you've turned
Give back your kissing
Leave not my love as you have
The broken hearts of
But wait, be still, don't lose this
Affection now, for what you
May be something more, could be
Accept my love, live for
Your roses wilted, as love
Yet trust in me, my love and
Dwell in my heart, from which you've
My strength as great as yours
It is in fear you turn
And miss the chance of love
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
How do I love thee? Let me count the
I love thee to the depth and breadth and
My soul can reach, when feeling out of
For the ends of being and ideal
I love thee to the level of every
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-
I love thee freely, as men strive for
I love thee purely, as they turn from
I love thee with the passion put to
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's
I love thee with a love I seemed to
With my lost saints. I love thee with the
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God
I shall but love thee better after
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
after Robert Duncan
my earliest dreams linger/wronged spirits
who will not rest/dusky crows astride
the sweetbriar seek to fly the
orchard's sky. is this the world i loved?
groves of perfect oranges and streets of stars
where the sad eyes of my youth
wander the atomic-age paradise
the blood of a stark and wounded puberty?
o what years ago? what rapture lost in white
heat of skin/walls that patina my heart's
despair? what fear disturbs my quiet
night's grazing? stampedes my soul?
o memory. i sweat the eternal weight of graves
Wanda Coleman (1946-present)
John Keats was born in London on October 31, 1795. He was a major poet of the Romantic movement in England, but sadly died at age 24 in Rome, Italy.
A Presentation by Christenson, Riji, Ringstad, and Samson
William Shakespeare was a poet, playwright, and actor. His pieces have been studied in schools throughout the world, including Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, and selections of his multitude of sonnets.
Sir Thomas Wyatt!
translated sonnets from Italian to English
also began writing his own sonnets, imitating Petrarch
Introduced his own rhyme scheme
Giacomo de Lentini
created the sonnet in the 13th century
Most famous early Italian sonneteer
Wrote in the 14th century
worked a lot to bring back the Classics
helped initiate the Italian renaissance
Was translated into English by...
The Sonnets of today
"Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads."
-Dr. Emmett Lathrop Brown
New Formalists have given a bit of a rebirth to sonnets
They often play with the form (they don't need roads)
An example: the word sonnet
Labeled a sonnet, but the verse form (sonnet) is stripped down to a single element -- the fourteen lines
The Significance of the Sonnet
It is no surprise that the sonnet has survived the test of time. Its structure and origins lend themselves to a sturdy framework, upon which new ideas can be hung.
Within its strict structure, difficult topics of life are addressed. Love was a common theme at the time of its conception, but the sonnet has come to encompass all themes in life that we struggle with.
During the Second World War, sonnets found a minor revival; this is perhaps because the form, structure, and echoes of love from the first sonnets were a sharp and poignant contrast to the warfare engulfing the world.
A Student-Written Example & a Few Questions
Upon a wall hangs fastly ticking time.
The cig’rette buzzes, caffeine courses strong.
Deadlines draw near and a student breathes sighs.
Dig through the work; be sure none is wrong.
The scholar’s eyes finished packing their bags,
Yet there is work undone, and tests untaken.
Books and pens lie in no good order or stage,
And thoughts float in wond’ring “what is Zen?”
When more hours have passed and flown away
Than can be counted upon fingers and toes,
A few more turns of the hand go ‘round the face,
‘Fore the author spots the time to rush from abode.
Weeks crawl by while in fear he waits
For his letters, he’s returned the “A.”
Which form is the sonnet written in?
How do you know?
Is there a rhyme scheme?
If so, what is it?
Is there a consistent meter?
If so, what is the meter?
Is there a Volta?
If so, where is it, and what does it change?
If not, what would make a good turn of thought?
Much of the 18th century: