These are questions need answers, make sure that do not copy from the Internet, No plagiarism. Answer them from the attachment and source. Answer EACH part of them. Thank you.Part 2: for the terms, you must provide a definition based on lecture and a specific
example from one of the works we have studied(Answer ALL of them).Part 3: For each quote, you must do three things: 1. Identify work and author; 2. Discuss a theme
of the work illustrated in the quote; 3. Relate the quote to the time period in which it was
written. Thank you.
Poems of Wilfred Owen.
Anthem for Doomed YouthBY WILFRED OWEN<https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wilfred-owen>What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?– Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattleCan patter out their hasty orisons.No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyesShall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blindsDulce et Decorum EstLaunch Audio in a New WindowBY WILFRED OWEN<https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wilfred-owen>Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,And towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumblingFitting the clumsy helmets just in time,But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.-Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.
She is standing on my eyelidsAnd her hair is in my hairShe has the color of my eyeShe has the body of my handIn my shade she is engulfedAs a stone against the sky
She will never close her eyesAnd she does not let me sleepAnd her dreams in the bright dayMake the suns evaporateAnd me laugh cry and laughSpeak when I have nothing to say
Latin phrase is from the Roman poet Horace: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”
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