I've been a bit busy as of late, with exams appearing close on the horizon and the extension of our house almost finished.
School-wise I have learned to loathe literature with an intense passion, so much so that I am replacing it with psychology next year. Apart from the fact I hate Ms Robert's I've come to realise that I'm only good at poetry analysis and I suck at everything else. It's kind of depressing because I thought I excelled at lit and then to realise that it's one of my worst subjects makes it horrible. I don't even like it. I don't care about it anymore. Although it has allowed me to discover an amazing poet, William Wordsworth. He was a romanticist and a nature poet and he is just a master of words. I'll put part of one of his poems at the end of the post.
Other than literature everything seems to be going well. I'm worried about my health 3/4 exam because there is just so much to remember. It's very daunting.
Ummm... I'm not really sure what else to write except that I cannot wait until summer holidays. I am planning to write and paint/draw until my heart is content. I really feel like I need it although I probably don't. Sorry for the shortness guys. I'll try and write a longer one soon.
The Prelude - Book One (Selected lines.
One summer evening (led by her) I found
A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in
Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;
There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--
And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
And serious mood; but after I had seen
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.
William Wordsworth.
Thank you and goodnight.
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