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The Rivers Merchants Wife: A Letter

Li Tai Po

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.









The Rubaiyat
Omar Khayyam



Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood
before
The Tavern shouted--Open, then, the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Some for the Glories of This World; and
some
Sigh for the Prophets Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Look to the blowing Rose about us--Lo,
Laughing," she says, into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.


I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar
bled;That every Hyacinth the Garden
wearsDropped in her Lap from some once
lovely Head.
And this reviving Herb whose tender
GreenFledges the River-Lip on which we
lean



Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knowsFrom
what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Belovd, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears:
Tomorrow!--Why, Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterdays Sevn thousand
Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath
pressed,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two
before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new
bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of
Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for
whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may
spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;Dust
into Dust, and under Dust to lie,Sans Wine,
sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
The Moving Finger writes, and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling cooped we live and
die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
The Little Rain
Tu Fu


Oh! She is good, the little rain! And well
She knows our need
Who cometh in the time of spring to aid
The sun-drawn seed;
She wanders with a friendly wind through
Silent nights unseen,
The furrows feel her happy tears,
and lo! The land is green.
Last night, cloud-shadows gloomed
The path that winds to my abode,
And the torches of the river boats
Like angry meteors glowed.
Today, fresh colors break the soil, and
Butterflies take wing
Down, broidered lawns all bright with
Pearls in the garden of the king














Poetry

Pablo Neruda




And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't
know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire









and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.







INTERPRETATION

"The Cask of Amontillado" is that despite Montresor's sardonic jabs, Fortunato
does not realize the extent of his danger until he has been chained to the granite,
and even then he remains too drunk to completely comprehend what has taken
place for some time. After repeatedly insulting Luchesi for his lack of intellect,
Fortunato shows himself to be even more the dupable fool. Because of Fortunato's
drunken and therefore unsuspicious condition, we do not know if Fortunato
would have been any cleverer in his normal state. Nevertheless, by the end of the
story, Montresor shows himself to be both the more villainous and the more
intelligent being. As he tells Fortunato, he comes from a family with a motto and a
coat of arms that indicates a long tradition of revenge, and he ignores any pangs
of heart sickness by blaming the damp and shutting Fortunato into the burial
ground of his avenging family. The Cask of Amontillado" we know very little
about Montresor's audience or motivations. The only hint we have comes in the
first paragraph, where he implies that his audience already knows something of
Montresor's thoughts and personality. The account occurs some fifty years after
the event, suggesting that a somewhat older Montresor was never discovered and
has not greatly changed his opinion that the crime was justified. Montresor has
shown himself to be risk averse, so his audience must be someone that he trusts,
perhaps a confessor or a relative. Possibly he is at the end of his life, and now that
he can no longer face any severe consequences, he has decided to tell his story.





INTERPRETATION

The Lottery Jackson wants the readers to believe that the town was ordinary and
innocent, but ends with a shocking ending of a terrible stoning. A lot of the
readers were shocked, they thought that Jacksons story was fiction, but Religious
Persecution happens in every part of the world, and readers were not able to
accept the horrific truth. The Lottery is very evident, the author indirectly
implicates the truth of the lottery through names, objects and the setting. The
Lottery remains relevant in our society today because the symbols in the story
were never fully explained. The story itself symbolizes tradition, unquestioned
traditions that exist not just in the society of the Lottery. The Lottery strongly
shows collective mentality, despite Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson being wed; Mr.
Hutchinson participated in the stoning of his own wife. When in a group, people
usually lose their individuality, and are often peer-pressured. The fact that Mr.
Hutchinson went from joking with his wife, to killing her in a short time shows
how fast people can have a change of heart. The heavy emphasis on religious
traditions and symbols make the Lottery one of the darkest and most mysterious
stories to date.






Butuan Doctors College
J.C Aquino Avenue Butuan City





CASE STUDY ON SHORTNESS OF BREATHING





Submitted by:
Mecherose J. Tejada BSN III-A

Submitted to:
Marivic M. Suguitan RN,MN


INTERPRETATION

A rose for Emily In the story the house represents mental illness, death, and
alienation. It has become a living shrine of her past, her father, and of herself.
While the town around her as upgraded to the more modern ideas, she has no
allowed anyone to change anything about her home which is entirely outdated.
She preserves the upstairs bedroom as a place she keeps her "love", it is forbidden
to be entered and is very mysterious much like Emily. When she passes away, it
gives the town's people a chance to get a little information about her, as a person.
Miss Emily goes to the "druggist" and demands that he gives her the best poison
he has. When he explains to her that it is a law that she
has to tell him why, she just stares at him and he walks off and in return another
man brings it back. The narrator never tell us why she needs it or what she uses it
for. Emily has to deal with her emotional and psychological self when her
isolation causes an abnormal love. This abnormal love causes her to attempt to
keep the men she loves, even after their death.

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