(I will be e-mailing this to you via www.turnitin.com once they finish their site update; probably not until Friday or so.)
The written part of the semester test will be administered to you according to our discussion before Winter Break, and will be two essays: one, an FRQ based on something we read in class thus far, and one, an analysis of a poem. To prepare for this, I would like you to read this poem over and annotate it before you come to class on Monday, January 4. I will have copies available for annotation if you have no access to a printer, and this poem is also in your literary anthology, but I am reprinting it below under Common Use license since it is in the public domain.
T.S. Eliot is an impenetrable poet for many of you, but I think "Preludes" is just enchanting--and not in a good way, necessarily. Now that you have studied "Prufrock" and have some critical readings behind you, take a good look at this piece--perhaps for the second or third time, for some of you--and annotate. You may use TP-CASTT if you like, or merely highlight words/phrases that stand out to you.
The website where you can find the poem is http://www.bartleby.com/198/3.html.
But here is the text:
| T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917. |
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| 3. Preludes |
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| | I
THE WINTER evening settles down | | | With smell of steaks in passageways. | | | Six o’clock. | | | The burnt-out ends of smoky days. | | | And now a gusty shower wraps | 5 | | The grimy scraps | | | Of withered leaves about your feet | | | And newspapers from vacant lots; | | | The showers beat | | | On broken blinds and chimney-pots, | 10 | | And at the corner of the street | | | A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. | | | And then the lighting of the lamps. | | | | II
The morning comes to consciousness | | | Of faint stale smells of beer | 15 | | From the sawdust-trampled street | | | With all its muddy feet that press | | | To early coffee-stands. | | | With the other masquerades | | | That time resumes, | 20 | | One thinks of all the hands | | | That are raising dingy shades | | | In a thousand furnished rooms. | | | | III
You tossed a blanket from the bed, | | | You lay upon your back, and waited; | 25 | | You dozed, and watched the night revealing | | | The thousand sordid images | | | Of which your soul was constituted; | | | They flickered against the ceiling. | | | And when all the world came back | 30 | | And the light crept up between the shutters | | | And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, | | | You had such a vision of the street | | | As the street hardly understands; | | | Sitting along the bed’s edge, where | 35 | | You curled the papers from your hair, | | | Or clasped the yellow soles of feet | | | In the palms of both soiled hands. | | | | IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies | | | That fade behind a city block, | 40 | | Or trampled by insistent feet | | | At four and five and six o’clock; | | | And short square fingers stuffing pipes, | | | And evening newspapers, and eyes | | | Assured of certain certainties, | 45 | | The conscience of a blackened street | | | Impatient to assume the world. | | | | | I am moved by fancies that are curled | | | Around these images, and cling: | | | The notion of some infinitely gentle | 50 | | Infinitely suffering thing. | | | | | Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; | | | The worlds revolve like ancient women | | | Gathering fuel in vacant lots. | | | |
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