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Adapted from
Literature, An introduction to Fiction, Poetry and
Drama
A
fixed form (structure): 14 lines (an octave followed
by a sestet)
With conventions (expected features, such as themes,
subjects, attitudes, or figures of speech)
Petrarch (1304-1374): known as the father of
Humanism, he perfected the sonnet. This form is
known as the Italian sonnet.
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The rhyme
scheme is abba, abba in the first eight
lines (octave); here, the poet states a problem,
and/or a situation
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Then, we have a new rhyme scheme in the last six
lines, the sestet: cdcdcd, cdecde, (or any
other variation that doesn’t end in a couplet)
where the poet suggests a resolution,
counterargument, clarification—whatever the octave
demands.
Example: a lover may lament all octave long that a
loved one is neglectful, then in line nine (the
shift) begin to foresee some outcome: the speaker
will die, or accept unhappiness, or trust that the
beloved will have a change of heart.
The Petrarchan sonnet was popular in Romantic poetry
as a traditional type of occasional poem written on
an important subject, public or private. Wordsworth
wrote this sonnet in 1807 when he realized that his
imaginative powers were beginning to fail. Here, he
laments the tendency to get caught up in material
considerations at the expense of the soul, or deeper
self. In the first nine lines, the speaker’s tone is
one of restrained disapproval as he states his theme
that “we are out of tune” with nature. In the middle
of the ninth line, however, the tone changes,
(“Great God!”) and the speaker passionately
proclaims he would rather revert to paganism than
remain cut off from life’s meaning.
The
World is Too Much with Us (1807)
By William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan
suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant
lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of
Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old
Triton blow his wreathed horn.
London,
1802
By William Wordsworth
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
By William Wordsworth
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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