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The Goat-Paths by James Stephens The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill - they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness. And there the goats, day after day, Stray in sunny quietness, Cropping here and cropping there, As they pause and turn and pass, Now a bit of heather spray, Now a mouthful of the grass. In the deeper sunniness, In the place where nothing stirs, Quietly in quietness, In the quiet of the furze, For a time they come and lie Staring on the roving sky. If you approach they run away, They leap and stare, away they bound, With a sudden angry sound, To the sunny quietude; Crouching down where nothing stirs In the silence of the furze, Couching down again to brood In the sunny solitude. If I were as wise as they I would stray apart and brood, I would beat a hidden way Through he quiet heather spray To a sunny solitude; And should you come I'd run away, I would make an angry sound, I would stare and turn and bound To the deeper quietude, T

I wandered lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o'er vales and Hills, When 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. Analysis Stanza 1-2 The poet was lonely like a single floating cloud. He was moving around aimlessly when all of a sudden he came upon ‘a host of golden Daffodils’, that is,

A Psalm of Life BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Tell me not, in mournful numbers,   Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers,   And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest!   And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest,   Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,   Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow   Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting,   And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating   Funeral marches to the grave. In the world’s broad field of battle,   In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle!   Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!   Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,— act in the living Present!   Heart within, and God o’erhead! Lives of great men all remind us   We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us   Footprints on the sands of time; Foo

People said, "Indian children are hard to teach, Don't expect them to talk." One day Stubby Little Boy said, "Last night the moon went all the way with me, When I went out to walk." People said, "Indian children are very silent, Their only words are no and yes." But ragged Pansy confided softly, "My dress is old, but at night the moon is kind; Then I wear a beautiful moon colored dress." People said, "Indian children are dumb. They seldom make a reply." Clearly I hear Delores answer, "Yes the sunset is so good, I think God is throwing a bright shawl Across the shoulders of the sky." People said, "Indian children have no affection. They just don't care for anyone." Then I feel Ramone's hand and hear him whisper, "A wild animal races in me Since my mother sleeps under the ground. Will it always run and run?" People said, "Indian children are rude. They don't seem very bright."

Jayanta Mahapatra -poet This is a man who talks of pain As if it belonged to him alone Maybe he has invented it himself And made virtue of it Maybe he is a poet For hours he waits In the night, taoward another night he waits For that is his excuse to live The empty window in the lonely wall belongs to him For months together the window has been deceiving him Light comes in, then goes away on its own He has been trying to polish the light on his heart They all say he was a poet His eyes saw the pain in the mirror that occupied him They don't grudge him that: Such a harmless pastime never ruined anybody's sleep Analysis Why are poets so mysterious? Is that a set-up? Do they pretend to be elusive to derive sympathy and admiration from their readers and well-wishers. Or are they the real sufferers-whose pain is often misconstrued as a means to manipulate people's emotions owing to the fact that poetry with a tragic backdrop is one subject for which they receive good at

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.    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.    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.    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. Analysis by Poonam Behura Frost in the poem 'stopping by the woods on a snowy evening' assumes the character of a rider, who once pauses between snowy woods and a frozen lake in the late evening. It is because he is arrested by the scenic beauty of the place, which seems quite an unlikely circumstance that any rider could be caught in. The writer probably knows whom the woods belong to; th