A/ HS 1 Literature
The Sonnet:
‘a moment’s
monument’.
‘It’s like
travelling
in time.’
onsdag 26 oktober 11
Why the sonnet?
• long tradition
– in Italian, French and English literature, form
used from fifteenth century (1400-talet)
onwards
• clear formal requirements and constraints
– there is agreement about what a sonnet is,
and about what the proper subjects for a
sonnet are.
• a self-conscious form
– sonnets often take as theme the idea of
writing poetry itself
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What to think of when reading a
poem
•
•
•
•
•
Sound effects
Appearance
Scene
Speaker
Tone
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What to think of when reading a
sonnet
• What is the rhyme scheme?
– Elizabethan or English sonnet
• fourteen lines, three quatrains and a couplet
• rhymed abab cdcd efef gg
– Petrarchan or Italian sonnet
• fourteen lines, an octave and a sestet
• rhymed abba abba cde cde
• What argument or proposition is made by
this poem?
• What is the scene?
• Who speaks? What is the tone?
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Sonnet XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare (1609)
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Sonnet XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
a
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
b
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, a
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
b
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
c
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
d
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
c
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; d
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
e
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
f
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, e
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
f
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
g
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
g
William Shakespeare (1609)
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‘conceit’
• conceit, n.
– archaic sense
– That which is conceived in the mind, a
conception, notion, idea, thought; device.
• conceited, adj.
– modern sense
– most often used in the form of an adjective
– a.to have a favourable opinion of one's self
http://www.oed.com.ezproxy.its.uu.se/
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‘On the Sonnet’
onsdag 26 oktober 11
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter’d, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain’d
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
a
b
c
a
b
d
e
f
g
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d
f
d
John Keats (1819)
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‘On the Sonnet’
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter’d, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain’d
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
John Keats
onsdag 26 oktober 11
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‘On the Sonnet’
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter’d, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain’d
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
John Keats
onsdag 26 oktober 11
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‘On the Sonnet’
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain’d,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter’d, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain’d,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain’d
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
John Keats (1819)
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‘Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room’
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
William Wordsworth
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‘Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room’
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom >
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
William Wordsworth
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Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe:
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay;
Invention, Nature’s child, fled stepdame Study’s blows;
And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write.”
Philip Sidney (from Astrophel and Stella, 1591)
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‘On the Grasshopper and the Cricket’
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
John Keats 1816
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‘On the Grasshopper and the Cricket’
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
John Keats 1816
onsdag 26 oktober 11
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‘On the Grasshopper and the Cricket’
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
John Keats 1816
onsdag 26 oktober 11
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‘Anne Hathaway’
‘Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed ...’
(from Shakespeare’s will)
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love —
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.
Carol Ann Duffy (1999)
onsdag 26 oktober 11
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‘Anne Hathaway’
‘Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed ...’
(from Shakespeare’s will)
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love —
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.
Carol Ann Duffy (1999)
onsdag 26 oktober 11
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‘Anne Hathaway’
‘Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed ...’
(from Shakespeare’s will)
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love —
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.
Carol Ann Duffy (1999)
onsdag 26 oktober 11
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Time Travel
In the sonnet form we hear the voices of
the past as they address their future, our
present.
Knowing this, the modern poet adopts the
sonnet form, travelling back in time to
help us imagine a world that is not our
own but not so different as we might
think.
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‘I, being born a woman and distressed’
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and the cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, - let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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