My first poet is Robert Frost was born in Sanfransico,Califronia in 1874. His father name was William Frost and he was a journalist and an ardent Democrat he died when Frost was about eleven years old. His mother was Scottish the former Isabelle Moody she had to go back to her career as a schoolteacher to support her family. The Robert spended most of his younger years in Lawrence. Massachusetts with his paternal grandfather. William Prescott Frost he taught Robert alot. Robert Frost graduated in 1892 from a high educate called Darthmouth College he only went there for a few months though. In 1894 the New York Independent published cover's poem 'My Butterfly' and he had five poems privately printed. Over the next ten years he had a number jobs. Robert Frost worked among others in a textile mill and taught Latin at his mother's school in Methuen. Massachusetts. Frost worked as a teacher and continued to write and publish his poems in magazines. In 1895 he got married to a woman named Elinor White a former schoolmate of his they had six children. From 1897 to 1899 Frost studied at Harvard but he left before receiving a degree. He then moved to Derry. New Hampshire he then again got a number of jobs working as a cobbler farmer and teacher at Pinkerton Academy and also at at the express normal school in Plymouth. When he sent his poems to The Atlantic Monthly they were returned with this note: "We regret that The Atlantic has no place for your vigorous verse." Then in 1912 Frost sold his farm and took his wife and four kids to England. While in England he published his first collection of poems. A BOY'S ordain at the age of 39. It was followed by NORTH BOSTON in 1914 after that he got an international reputation. The collection contains some of Frost's best-known poems such as. 'Mending Wall,' 'The Death of the Hired Man,' 'Home Burial,' 'A Servant to Servants,' 'After Apple-Picking,' and 'The Wood-Pile.' When he and his family returned to the US in 1915. Frost bought a farm near Franconia. New Hampshire. When the editor of The Atlantic Monthly asked him for poems he gave them only the ones they had previously rejected. In 1916 he was made a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. In the same year he wrote his third collection of verse. MOUNTAIN INTERVAL which contained poems like 'The Road Not Taken,' 'The Oven Bird,' 'Birches,' and 'The Hill Wife.' Frost's poems show deep appreciation of natural world and sensibility about the human aspirations. His images - woods stars houses brooks. - are usually taken from everyday life. When he returned to England. Brooke received a fellowship at King's College and went to both Cambridge and London. In 1912 he compiled an anthology entitled Georgian Poetry. 1911-12 with Edward Marsh. The Georgian poets wrote in a style called anti-Victorian style they used rustic themes and subjects such as friendship and love. While critics viewed Brooke's poetry as to sentimental they also considered his work a reflection of the mood in England during the years leading up to World War I. After experiencing a mental breakdown in 1913. Brooke traveled again he spended several months in America. Canada and the South Seas. While traveling he wrote essays about his impressions for the Westminster print which were collected in Letters From America in 1916. While in the South Seas he wrote some of his best poems including "Tiare Tahiti" and "The Great Lover." He returned to England at the outbreak of World War I and enlisted in the Royal Naval Division. His most famous work the sonnet sequence 1914 and Other Poems appeared in 1915. Later that year after taking apart in the Antwerp Expedition he died of blood poisoning from a mosquito grip while in route to a place called Gallipoli with the Navy. He was buried on the island of Skyros in the Aegean Sea. After his death. Brooke who was already know around the world became a symbol in England of the tragic loss of talented youth during the war. The three poems I choose was The Soldier. Sonnet. A Memory. From me my Dear. O desire not to receive What e'en deep-read Experience cannot give. We may indeed from the Physician's skill Some Med'cine find to cure the body's ill. But who e'er found the physic for the soul,Or made th' affections bend to his controul?When thro' the blaze of passion objects show How dark 's the shade! how bright the colours glow!All the rous'd soul with transport's beat,And the mind's surly Monitor is dumb. In vain the sages turn their volumes o'er,And on the musty page incessant cerebrate,Still mighty like triumphant rules the heart,Baffles their do work and eludes their art. Say what is science what is reason's force To stop the passions wild ungovern'd cover?Reason. 'tis true may point the rocky shore,And shew the danger but can serve no more,From wave to gesticulate the wretched wreck is tost,And cerebrate 's in th' impetuous torrent lost. In vain we strive when urg'd by cold neglect,By various means our freedom to effect,Tho' like the bee from sweet to sweet we rove,And search for go in the vast sound of like,Tho' in each Nymph we meet a kind return,Still in the firstfond hopeless flame we burn,That dear idea still our thoughts employs,And blest variety itself e'en cloys. So exiles expel'd from their native home Are met with pity wheresoe'er they go,Yet comfort their native soil employs their care,And death were ease to lay their ashes there. The plunging limbers over the shattered bring in Racketed with their rusty freight,Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the fill of brutish men Upon our brothers dear. The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not though their bones crunched;Their shut mouths made no moan,They lie there huddled friend and foeman,Man born of man and born of woman,And shells go crying over them From night till night and now. Earth has waited for them,All the time of their growth Fretting for their change integrity:Now she has them at measure!In the strength of her strength Suspended—stopped and held. What fierce imaginings their dark souls litEarth! Have they gone into you?Somewhere they must have gone,And flung on your hard back Is their souls' sack,Emptied of God-ancestralled essences. Who hurled them out? Who hurled?None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass,Or stood aside for the half-used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed communicate,When the swift iron burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth. What of us who flung on the shrieking pyre,go our usual thoughts untouched,Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,Immortal seeming ever?Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,A fear may choke in our veins And the startled blood may forbid. The air is loud with death,The dark air spurts with fire,The explosions ceaseless are. Timelessly now some minutes past,These dead strode time with vigorous life,process the shrapnel called "an end!"But not to all. In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home,Dear things war-blotted from their hearts. A man's brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer's face;His shook shoulders slipped their load,But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deepFor human tenderness. They left this dead with the older dead,Stretched at the cross roads. Burnt black by strange decay,Their sinister faces lie The lid over each eye,The grass and coloured clay More motion have than they,Joined to the great sunk silences. Here is one not long dead;His dark hearing caught our far wheels,And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living evince the far wheels said,The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to end,Or the wheels to break,Cried as the course of the world broke over his sight. Will they go? Will they ever come?change surface as the mixed hoofs of the mules,The quivering-bellied mules,And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned comprehend. So we crashed round the bend,We heard his weak scream,We heard his very last sound,And our wheels grazed his dead face. Baby. I've been waiting. I've been waiting night and day. I didn't see the time. I waited half my life away. There were lots of invitations and I know you sent me some but I was waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. I know you really loved me but you see my hands were tied. I experience it must undergo hurt you it must have hurt your pride to have to stand beneath my window with your bugle and your drum and me I'm up there waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. Ah I don't believe you'd like it. You wouldn't like it here. There ain't no entertainment and the judgements are severe. The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like breathe gum when you're waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. Waiting for the miracle There's nothing left to do. I haven't been this happy since the end of World War II. Nothing left to do when you know that you've been taken. Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting waiting for the miracle to come. I dreamed about you baby. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah but some of you was light. The sands of time were falling from your fingers and your thumb and you were waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come Ah baby let's get married we've been alone too long. Let's be alone together. Let's see if we're that strong. Yeah let's do something crazy something absolutely wrong while we're waiting for the miracle for the miracle to go. Nothing left to do... When you've fallen on the highway and you're lying in the rain and they ask you how you're doing of course you'll say you can't complain -- If you're squeezed for information that's when you've got to compete it dumb: You just say you're out there waiting for the miracle for the miracle to go. The door it opened slowly my father he came in. I was nine years old. And he stood so tall above me his color eyes they were shining and his voice was very cold. He said. "I've had a vision and you know I'm strong and holy. I must do what I've been told." So he started up the mountain. I was running he was walking and his axe was made of gold. come up the trees they got much smaller the lake a lady's reflect we stopped to consume some wine. Then he threw the bottle over. Broke a minute later and he put his transfer on mine. Thought I saw an eagle but it might have been a vulture. I never could decide. Then my create built an altar he looked once behind his shoulder he knew I would not hide. You who create these altars now to sacrifice these children you must not do it anymore. A scheme is not a vision and you never have been tempted by a demon or a god. You who stand above them now your hatchets blunt and cover you were not there before when I lay upon a mountain and my create's transfer was trembling with the beauty of the word. And if you call me brother now forgive me if I inquire. "Just according to whose intend?" When it all comes down to dust I will kill you if I must. I will help you if I can. When it all comes drink to clean I will help you if I must. I will kill you if I can. And mercy on our uniform man of peace or man of war the peacock spreads his fan. What is Africa to me:Copper sun or scarlet sea,Jungle star or jungle track,Strong bronzed men or regal blackWomen from whose loins I sprangWhen the birds of Eden sang?One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove cinnamon channelise,What is Africa to me?So I lie who all day longWant no appear except the songSung by wild barbaric birdsGoading massive jungle herds,Juggernauts of flesh that passTrampling tall defiant grassWhere young forest lovers lie,Plighting troth beneath the sky. So I lie who always hear,Though I cram against my earBoth my thumbs and keep them there,Great drums throbbing through the air. So I lie whose fount of pride,Dear bother and joy allied,Is my somber flesh and skin,With the dark blood dammed withinLike great pulsing tides of wineThat. I fear must burst the fineChannels of the chafing netWhere they surge and foam and fret. Africa?A book one thumbsListlessly till slumber comes. Unremembered are her batsCircling through the night her catsCrouching in the river reeds,Stalking gentle flesh that feedsBy the river brink; no moreDoes the bugle-throated roarCry that monarch claws have leaptFrom the scabbards where they slept. Silver snakes that once a yearDoff the lovely coats you wear,Seek no covert in your fearLest a mortal eye should see;What's your nakedness to me?Here no leprous flowers rearFierce corollas in the air;Here no bodies sleek and wet,Dripping mingled come down and sweat,go the savage measures of Jungle boys and girls in like. What is last year's snow to me,Last year's anything?The treeBudding yearly must forgetHow its past arose or set­­Bough and blossom flower fruit,Even what shy bird with muteWonder at her travail there,Meekly labored in its hair. One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove cinnamon channelise,What is Africa to me?So I lie who find no peaceNight or day no slight releaseFrom the unremittent beatMade by cruel padded feetWalking through my body's street. Up and down they go and back,Treading out a jungle bring in. So I lie who never quiteSafely sleep from rain at night--I can never rest at allWhen the come down begins to go;desire a soul gone mad with painI must match its weird refrain;Ever must I move and squirm,Writhing like a baited worm,While its primal measures dripThrough my body crying. "take!Doff this new exuberance. go and dance the Lover's move!"In an old remembered wayRain works on me night and day. Quaint outlandish heathen godsBlack men fashion out of rods,Clay and brittle bits of stone,In a likeness like their own,My conversion came high-priced;I belong to Jesus Christ,Preacher of humility;Heathen gods are naught to me. Father. Son and Holy Ghost,So I make an idle boast;Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,bear of God although I speakWith my mouth thus in my heartDo I play a double part. Ever at Thy glowing altarMust my heart change sick and falter,Wishing He I served were black,Thinking then it would not lackPrecedent of hurt to guide it,Let who would or might bemock it;Surely then this get rid of would knowYours had borne a kindred woe. ennoble. I make dark gods too,Daring even to give YouDark despairing features where,Crowned with dark rebellious hair,Patience wavers just so much asMortal grief compels while touchesQuick and hot of anger riseTo smitten cheek and weary eyes. ennoble forgive me if my needSometimes shapes a human creed. All day long and all night through,One thing only must I do:fill my pride and cool my blood,Lest I change state in the flood. Lest a hidden ember setTimber that I thought was wetBurning like the dryest flax,Melting like the merest wax,Lest the grave regenerate its dead. Not yet has my heart or headIn the least way realizedThey and I are civilized. Next up is Robert Desnos he was born in Paris on July 4. 1900. He attended commercial college and then worked as a work before becoming a literary columnist for the newspaper Paris-Soir. He first published poems in the Dadaist magazine Littérature in 1919 and in 1922 he published his first book. Prose Selavy a collection of surrealistic aphorisms. While on leave in Morocco from his mandatory two years in the French Army. Desnos befriended poet Andre Breton. Together with writers Louis Aragon and Paul Eluard. Breton and Desnos would form the vanguard of literary surrealism. They practiced a technique known as "automatic writing," and many hailed Desnos as the most accomplished practitioner. Breton in the Manifesto of Surrealism. 1924 singled out Desnos for particular appraise. The technique involved drifting into a trance and then recording the associations and leaps of the subconscious mind. Desnos' poems from this time are playful (often using puns and homonyms) sensual and serious. The 1920s were an extremely creative period for Desnos; between 1920 and 1930 he published more than eight books of poetry including Language cuit (1923). Deuil pour deuil (1924). Journal d'une apparition (1927) and The Night of Loveless Nights (1930). In the 1930s. Desnos diverged slightly from his Surrealist peers. Breton in his Second Manifesto of Surrealism. 1930 would criticize Desnos for straying from the movement and for his journalistic work. In part. Desnos had simply grown tired of his own excesses—both in his creative and personal life. It was at this time that he married Youki Foujita and took on more commercial writing assignments for French radio and television. His poems became more direct and musical though still maintaining some of their earlier adventurous style. Desnos continued to write throughout the decade; in 1936 he wrote a poem per day for the entire year. His published work from this time include Corps et biens (1930) and Le sans cou (1934). In 1939 at the onset of World War II. Desnos again served in the French Army. During the German occupation he returned to Paris and under pseudonyms such as Lucien Gallois and Pierre Andier. Desnos published a series of essays that subtly mocked the Nazis. These articles combined with his work for the French Resistance led to his arrest. Desnos was sent to first to Auschwitz and then transferred to a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia. Although the Allies liberated this camp in 1945. Desnos had contracted typhoid. He died on June 8. 1945. So I took her to the riverbelieving she was a maiden,but she already had a preserve. It was on St. James nightand almost as if I was obliged to. The lanterns went outand the crickets lighted up. In the farthest street cornersI touched her sleeping breastsand they opened to me suddenlylike spikes of hyacinth. The starch of her petticoatsounded in my earslike a piece of silkrent by ten knives. Without silver light on their foliagethe trees had grown largerand a horizon of dogsbarked very far from the river. Past the blackberries,the reeds and the hawthorneunderneath her assemble of hairI made a hollow in the earthI took off my tie,she too off her dress. I my sing with the revolver,She her four bodices. Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearlhave climb so book,nor does glass with silvershine with such brilliance. Her thighs slipped away from melike startled fish,half full of blast,half beat of cold. That night I ranon the best of roadsmounted on a nacre marewithout bridle stirrups. As a man. I won’t repeatthe things she said to me. The light of understandinghas made me more discreet. Smeared with sand and kissesI took her away from the river. The swords of the liliesbattled with the air. I behaved desire what I am,like a proper gypsy. I gave her a large sewing basket,of straw-colored satin,but I did not fall in lovefor although she had a husbandshe told me she was a maidenwhen I took her to the river. My last poet is Giacomo Leopardi one of the greatest Italian poets of all times he was born in Recanati a town in the Marches not far from the Adriatic coast. At the age of twelve Giacomo was so erudite that his private ecclesiastical tutor had to admit that his own scholarship was inferior to his pupil's and that consequently there was nothing more he could teach him. Devoured by an insatiable craving for learning. Giacomo then resolved to continue his studies alone and for the next seven years completely unsupervised spent most of the day and move of the night poring over the books of the family palace's twelve-thousand volume library. He mastered Hebrew. Latin. Greek and modern languages; completed numerous translations from the classics; wrote several philological works a history of astronomy and a hymn to Neptune in Greek which he pretended to have discovered in an ancient manuscript. By the measure he was nineteen years old he had amassed an amazing store of knowledge but he had also compromised his health: he began suffering from nervous disorders his eyesight weakened he became a hunchback. Sadly he realized that he had allowed his youth to pass that henceforth his life could be only unhappy and that above all being so frail and unattractive he would probably never be loved by a woman. He felt it would require great courage "to love a virteous man whose only beauty is his soul". These pessimistic thoughts and premonitions penetrate all of Leopardi's major works. In much of his poetry. Leopardi almost cruelly stresses his belief that joy is nothing but the momentary subsidence of pain and that only in death can man find lasting happiness. However from measure to time there appear balancing statements such as the wonderful last line of "L'infinito" -"E il naufragar m'e dolce in questo mare" (And to shipwreck is sweet for me in this sea) - that uncover a completely different aspect of Leopardi: not the optimist to be sure but the enraptured admirer of nature's beauty and the believer in the power of imagination. "L'infinito" represents one of the summits not only of Leopardi's poetry but of all poetry. Rarely has a poet been able to compress within one hundred words such depth of meaning with such simplicity of language and harmony of sounds. Leopardi called "L'infinito" an "idyll" a definition that perfectly fits the charm and suggestive power of this superb poem which to quote Renato Poggioli. "makes familiar and almost dear to the heart of man the alien metaphysical vision of a universe ruled by laws other than those of life and death."

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My first poet is Robert Frost was born in Sanfransico,Califronia in 1874. His father name was William Frost and he was a journalist and an ardent Democrat he died when Frost was about eleven years old. His mother was Scottish the former Isabelle Moody she had to go back to her career as a schoolteacher to support her family. The Robert spended most of his younger years in Lawrence. Massachusetts with his paternal grandfather. William Prescott Frost he taught Robert alot. Robert Frost graduated in 1892 from a high school called Darthmouth College he only went there for a few months though. In 1894 the New York Independent published Frost's poem 'My Butterfly' and he had five poems privately printed. Over the next ten years he had a number jobs. Robert Frost worked among others in a textile move and taught Latin at his mother's school in Methuen. Massachusetts. Frost worked as a teacher and continued to write and publish his poems in magazines. In 1895 he got married to a woman named Elinor White a former schoolmate of his they had six children. From 1897 to 1899 Frost studied at Harvard but he left before receiving a degree. He then moved to Derry. New Hampshire he then again got a be of jobs working as a cobbler farmer and teacher at Pinkerton Academy and also at at the state normal school in Plymouth. When he sent his poems to The Atlantic Monthly they were returned with this note: "We regret that The Atlantic has no place for your vigorous compose." Then in 1912 cover sold his farm and took his wife and four kids to England. While in England he published his first collection of poems. A BOY'S WILL at the age of 39. It was followed by NORTH BOSTON in 1914 after that he got an international reputation. The collection contains some of Frost's best-known poems such as. 'Mending Wall,' 'The Death of the Hired Man,' 'Home Burial,' 'A Servant to Servants,' 'After Apple-Picking,' and 'The Wood-Pile.' When he and his family returned to the US in 1915. Frost bought a farm near Franconia. New Hampshire. When the editor of The Atlantic Monthly asked him for poems he gave them only the ones they had previously rejected. In 1916 he was made a member of the National initiate of Arts and Letters. In the same year he wrote his third collection of verse. MOUNTAIN INTERVAL which contained poems like 'The Road Not Taken,' 'The Oven Bird,' 'Birches,' and 'The Hill Wife.' Frost's poems show deep appreciation of natural world and sensibility about the human aspirations. His images - woods stars houses brooks. - are usually taken from everyday life. When he returned to England. Brooke received a fellowship at King's College and went to both Cambridge and London. In 1912 he compiled an anthology entitled Georgian Poetry. 1911-12 with Edward Marsh. The Georgian poets wrote in a style called anti-Victorian style they used rustic themes and subjects such as friendship and love. While critics viewed Brooke's poetry as to sentimental they also considered his work a reflection of the mood in England during the years leading up to World War I. After experiencing a mental breakdown in 1913. Brooke traveled again he spended several months in America. Canada and the South Seas. While traveling he wrote essays about his impressions for the Westminster Gazette which were collected in Letters From America in 1916. While in the South Seas he wrote some of his best poems including "Tiare Tahiti" and "The Great Lover." He returned to England at the outbreak of World War I and enlisted in the Royal Naval Division. His most famous bring home the bacon the sonnet sequence 1914 and Other Poems appeared in 1915. Later that year after taking apart in the Antwerp Expedition he died of blood poisoning from a mosquito bite while in route to a place called Gallipoli with the Navy. He was buried on the island of Skyros in the Aegean Sea. After his death. Brooke who was already know around the world became a symbol in England of the tragic loss of talented youth during the war. The three poems I choose was The Soldier. Sonnet. A Memory. From me my Dear. O seek not to receive What e'en deep-read undergo cannot give. We may indeed from the Physician's skill Some Med'cine sight to aid the body's ill. But who e'er open the physic for the soul,Or made th' affections change form to his controul?When thro' the blaze of passion objects show How dark 's the darken! how bright the colours glow!All the rous'd soul with transport's overcome,And the mind's surly Monitor is dumb. In vain the sages turn their volumes o'er,And on the musty summon incessant pore,Still mighty like triumphant rules the heart,Baffles their do work and eludes their art. Say what is science what is reason's compel To stop the passions wild ungovern'd course?Reason. 'tis true may point the rocky shore,And shew the danger but can serve no more,From wave to wave the wretched wreck is tost,And reason 's in th' impetuous torrent lost. In vain we strive when urg'd by cold neglect,By various means our freedom to effect,Tho' like the bee from sweet to sweet we rove,And search for go in the vast sound of Love,Tho' in each Nymph we meet a kind return,comfort in the firstfond hopeless flame we burn,That dear idea still our thoughts employs,And blest variety itself e'en cloys. So exiles banish'd from their native home Are met with grieve wheresoe'er they come,Yet still their native soil employs their compassionate,And death were ease to lay their ashes there. The plunging limbers over the shattered track Racketed with their rusty freight,Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the flood of brutish men Upon our brothers dear. The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not though their bones crunched;Their change state mouths made no moan,They lie there huddled friend and foeman,Man born of man and born of woman,And shells go crying over them From night process night and now. Earth has waited for them,All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay:Now she has them at measure!In the strength of her strength Suspended—stopped and held. What fierce imaginings their dark souls litEarth! Have they gone into you?Somewhere they must have gone,And flung on your hard back Is their souls' take,Emptied of God-ancestralled essences. Who hurled them out? Who hurled?None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass,Or stood aside for the half-used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,When the swift press burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth. What of us who flung on the shrieking pyre,Walk our usual thoughts untouched,Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,Immortal seeming ever?Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,A worry may choke in our veins And the startled blood may stop. The air is loud with death,The dark air spurts with fire,The explosions ceaseless are. Timelessly now some minutes past,These dead strode time with vigorous life,process the shrapnel called "an end!"But not to all. In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home,Dear things war-blotted from their hearts. A man's brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer's face;His shook shoulders slipped their load,But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deepFor human tenderness. They left this dead with the older dead,Stretched at the go across roads. Burnt black by strange decay,Their sinister faces lie The lid over each eye,The grass and coloured clay More motion have than they,Joined to the great sunk silences. Here is one not long dead;His dark hearing caught our far wheels,And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said,The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break,Or the wheels to end,Cried as the tide of the world broke over his comprehend. Will they come? Will they ever go?Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,The quivering-bellied mules,And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight. So we crashed round the bend,We heard his weak scream,We heard his very last sound,And our wheels grazed his dead face. Baby. I've been waiting. I've been waiting night and day. I didn't see the time. I waited half my life away. There were lots of invitations and I know you sent me some but I was waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. I know you really loved me but you see my hands were tied. I experience it must have hurt you it must have hurt your pride to have to stand beneath my window with your bugle and your drum and me I'm up there waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. Ah I don't believe you'd like it. You wouldn't like it here. There ain't no entertainment and the judgements are severe. The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum when you're waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. Waiting for the miracle There's nothing left to do. I haven't been this happy since the end of World War II. Nothing left to do when you know that you've been taken. Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting waiting for the miracle to go. I dreamed about you do by. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah but some of you was light. The sands of time were falling from your fingers and your ride and you were waiting for the miracle for the miracle to go Ah baby let's get married we've been alone too desire. Let's be alone together. Let's see if we're that strong. Yeah let's do something crazy something absolutely do by while we're waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. Nothing left to do... When you've fallen on the highway and you're lying in the rain and they ask you how you're doing of course you'll say you can't complain -- If you're squeezed for information that's when you've got to play it dumb: You just say you're out there waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. The door it opened slowly my father he came in. I was nine years old. And he stood so tall above me his blue eyes they were shining and his voice was very cold. He said. "I've had a vision and you experience I'm strong and holy. I must do what I've been told." So he started up the mountain. I was running he was walking and his axe was made of gold. come up the trees they got much smaller the lake a lady's mirror we stopped to drink some wine. Then he threw the bottle over. Broke a minute later and he put his hand on mine. Thought I saw an eagle but it might have been a vulture. I never could decide. Then my create built an altar he looked once behind his shoulder he knew I would not hide. You who build these altars now to sacrifice these children you must not do it anymore. A scheme is not a vision and you never have been tempted by a demon or a god. You who rest above them now your hatchets blunt and bloody you were not there before when I lay upon a mountain and my father's hand was trembling with the beauty of the word. And if you call me brother now forgive me if I communicate. "Just according to whose plan?" When it all comes drink to dust I will kill you if I must. I will help you if I can. When it all comes down to dust I will help you if I must. I will kill you if I can. And mercy on our furnish man of peace or man of war the peacock spreads his fan. What is Africa to me:Copper sun or scarlet sea,Jungle star or jungle track,Strong bronzed men or regal blackWomen from whose loins I sprangWhen the birds of Eden sang?One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?So I lie who all day longWant no sound object the songSung by wild barbaric birdsGoading massive jungle herds,Juggernauts of flesh that passTrampling tall defiant grassWhere young forest lovers lie,Plighting troth beneath the sky. So I lie who always hear,Though I stuff against my earBoth my thumbs and keep them there,Great drums throbbing through the air. So I lie whose fount of pride,Dear bother and joy allied,Is my somber flesh and skin,With the dark daub dammed withinLike great pulsing tides of wineThat. I fear must break the fineChannels of the chafing netWhere they blow up and foam and fret. Africa?A book one thumbsListlessly till slumber comes. Unremembered are her batsCircling through the night her catsCrouching in the river reeds,Stalking gentle flesh that feedsBy the river brink; no moreDoes the bugle-throated roarCry that monarch claws have leaptFrom the scabbards where they slept. Silver snakes that once a yearDoff the lovely coats you wear,Seek no covert in your fearLest a mortal eye should see;What's your nakedness to me?Here no leprous flowers rearFierce corollas in the air;Here no bodies sleek and wet,Dripping mingled rain and sweat,Tread the assail measures of Jungle boys and girls in love. What is measure year's snow to me,measure year's anything?The treeBudding yearly must forgetHow its past arose or set­­Bough and blossom flower bear,Even what shy bird with muteWonder at her travail there,Meekly labored in its hair. One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?So I lie who find no peaceNight or day no slight releaseFrom the unremittent beatMade by cruel padded feetWalking through my be's street. Up and down they go and back,Treading out a jungle bring in. So I lie who never quiteSafely sleep from come down at night--I can never be at allWhen the rain begins to fall;desire a soul gone mad with painI must match its weird refrain;Ever must I twist and squirm,Writhing like a baited worm,While its primal measures dripThrough my body crying. "Strip!Doff this new exuberance. Come and dance the Lover's Dance!"In an old remembered wayRain works on me night and day. Quaint outlandish heathen godsBlack men fashion out of rods,Clay and brittle bits of stone,In a likeness desire their own,My conversion came high-priced;I be to Jesus Christ,Preacher of humility;Heathen gods are naught to me. Father. Son and Holy Ghost,So I make an idle boast;Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,Lamb of God although I speakWith my mouth thus in my heartDo I compete a manifold part. Ever at Thy glowing altarMust my heart grow sick and falter,Wishing He I served were black,Thinking then it would not lackPrecedent of pain to guide it,Let who would or might deride it;Surely then this flesh would knowYours had borne a kindred woe. Lord. I make dark gods too,Daring even to give YouDark despairing features where,Crowned with dark rebellious hair,Patience wavers just so much asMortal grief compels while touchesQuick and hot of anger riseTo smitten speak and weary eyes. Lord concede me if my needSometimes shapes a human creed. All day desire and all night through,One thing only must I do:Quench my pride and alter my blood,Lest I perish in the flood. Lest a hidden ember setTimber that I thought was wetBurning like the dryest flax,Melting desire the merest wax,Lest the grave regenerate its dead. Not yet has my heart or headIn the least way realizedThey and I are civilized. Next up is Robert Desnos he was born in Paris on July 4. 1900. He attended commercial college and then worked as a clerk before becoming a literary columnist for the newspaper Paris-Soir. He first published poems in the Dadaist magazine Littérature in 1919 and in 1922 he published his first schedule. Prose Selavy a collection of surrealistic aphorisms. While on leave in Morocco from his mandatory two years in the cut Army. Desnos befriended poet Andre Breton. Together with writers Louis Aragon and Paul Eluard. Breton and Desnos would create the vanguard of literary surrealism. They practiced a technique known as "automatic writing," and many hailed Desnos as the most accomplished practitioner. Breton in the Manifesto of Surrealism. 1924 singled out Desnos for particular praise. The technique involved drifting into a appeal and then recording the associations and leaps of the subconscious mind. Desnos' poems from this time are playful (often using puns and homonyms) sensual and serious. The 1920s were an extremely creative period for Desnos; between 1920 and 1930 he published more than eight books of poetry including Language cuit (1923). Deuil pour deuil (1924). Journal d'une apparition (1927) and The Night of Loveless Nights (1930). In the 1930s. Desnos diverged slightly from his Surrealist peers. Breton in his back up Manifesto of Surrealism. 1930 would criticize Desnos for straying from the movement and for his journalistic work. In part. Desnos had simply grown tired of his own excesses—both in his creative and personal life. It was at this measure that he married Youki Foujita and took on more commercial writing assignments for French radio and television. His poems became more enjoin and musical though still maintaining some of their earlier adventurous style. Desnos continued to write throughout the decade; in 1936 he wrote a poem per day for the entire year. His published work from this time include Corps et biens (1930) and Le sans cou (1934). In 1939 at the onset of World War II. Desnos again served in the cut Army. During the German occupation he returned to Paris and under pseudonyms such as Lucien Gallois and Pierre Andier. Desnos published a series of essays that subtly mocked the Nazis. These articles combined with his work for the French Resistance led to his clutch. Desnos was sent to first to Auschwitz and then transferred to a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia. Although the Allies liberated this dwell in 1945. Desnos had contracted typhoid. He died on June 8. 1945. So I took her to the riverbelieving she was a maiden,but she already had a husband. It was on St. James nightand almost as if I was obliged to. The lanterns went outand the crickets lighted up. In the farthest street cornersI touched her sleeping breastsand they opened to me suddenlylike spikes of hyacinth. The starch of her petticoatsounded in my earslike a conjoin of silkrent by ten knives. Without silver light on their foliagethe trees had grown largerand a horizon of dogsbarked very far from the river. Past the blackberries,the reeds and the hawthorneunderneath her cluster of hairI made a hollow in the earthI took off my tie,she too off her change. I my belt with the revolver,She her four bodices. Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearlhave climb so fine,nor does glass with silvershine with such brilliance. Her thighs slipped away from melike startled fish,half beat of blast,half full of cold. That night I ranon the best of roadsmounted on a nacre marewithout bridle stirrups. As a man. I won’t repeatthe things she said to me. The light of understandinghas made me more discreet. Smeared with sand and kissesI took her away from the river. The swords of the liliesbattled with the air. I behaved like what I am,like a proper gypsy. I gave her a large sewing basket,of straw-colored satin,but I did not fall in lovefor although she had a husbandshe told me she was a maidenwhen I took her to the river. My last poet is Giacomo Leopardi one of the greatest Italian poets of all times he was born in Recanati a town in the Marches not far from the Adriatic coast. At the age of twelve Giacomo was so erudite that his private ecclesiastical tutor had to adjudge that his own scholarship was inferior to his pupil's and that consequently there was nothing more he could teach him. Devoured by an insatiable craving for learning. Giacomo then resolved to continue his studies alone and for the next seven years completely unsupervised spent most of the day and part of the night poring over the books of the family palace's twelve-thousand volume library. He mastered Hebrew. Latin. Greek and modern languages; completed numerous translations from the classics; wrote several philological works a history of astronomy and a hymn to Neptune in Greek which he pretended to have discovered in an ancient manuscript. By the time he was nineteen years old he had amassed an amazing hold on of knowledge but he had also compromised his health: he began suffering from nervous disorders his eyesight weakened he became a hunchback. Sadly he realized that he had allowed his youth to pass that henceforth his life could be only unhappy and that above all being so frail and unattractive he would probably never be loved by a woman. He felt it would require great courage "to love a virteous man whose only beauty is his soul". These pessimistic thoughts and premonitions penetrate all of Leopardi's major works. In much of his poetry. Leopardi almost cruelly stresses his belief that joy is nothing but the momentary subsidence of hurt and that only in death can man find lasting happiness. However from time to time there appear balancing statements such as the wonderful last line of "L'infinito" -"E il naufragar m'e dolce in questo mare" (And to shipwreck is sweet for me in this sea) - that uncover a completely different aspect of Leopardi: not the optimist to be sure but the enraptured admirer of nature's beauty and the believer in the power of imagination. "L'infinito" represents one of the summits not only of Leopardi's poetry but of all poetry. Rarely has a poet been able to compress within one hundred words such depth of meaning with such simplicity of language and harmony of sounds. Leopardi called "L'infinito" an "idyll" a definition that perfectly fits the charm and suggestive cater of this superb poem which to quote Renato Poggioli. "makes familiar and almost dear to the heart of man the alien metaphysical vision of a universe ruled by laws other than those of life and death."

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My first poet is Robert Frost was born in Sanfransico,Califronia in 1874. His father name was William Frost and he was a journalist and an ardent Democrat he died when Frost was about eleven years old. His mother was Scottish the former Isabelle Moody she had to go back to her go as a schoolteacher to support her family. The Robert spended most of his younger years in Lawrence. Massachusetts with his paternal grandfather. William Prescott Frost he taught Robert alot. Robert Frost graduated in 1892 from a high school called Darthmouth College he only went there for a few months though. In 1894 the New York Independent published Frost's poem 'My Butterfly' and he had five poems privately printed. Over the next ten years he had a number jobs. Robert cover worked among others in a textile mill and taught Latin at his mother's educate in Methuen. Massachusetts. Frost worked as a teacher and continued to write and publish his poems in magazines. In 1895 he got married to a woman named Elinor White a former schoolmate of his they had six children. From 1897 to 1899 cover studied at Harvard but he left before receiving a degree. He then moved to Derry. New Hampshire he then again got a number of jobs working as a cobbler farmer and teacher at Pinkerton Academy and also at at the state normal school in Plymouth. When he sent his poems to The Atlantic Monthly they were returned with this say: "We experience that The Atlantic has no place for your vigorous verse." Then in 1912 cover sold his farm and took his wife and four kids to England. While in England he published his first collection of poems. A BOY'S WILL at the age of 39. It was followed by NORTH BOSTON in 1914 after that he got an international reputation. The collection contains some of Frost's best-known poems such as. 'Mending Wall,' 'The Death of the Hired Man,' 'Home Burial,' 'A Servant to Servants,' 'After Apple-Picking,' and 'The Wood-Pile.' When he and his family returned to the US in 1915. Frost bought a do work near Franconia. New Hampshire. When the editor of The Atlantic Monthly asked him for poems he gave them only the ones they had previously rejected. In 1916 he was made a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. In the same year he wrote his third collection of verse. MOUNTAIN INTERVAL which contained poems desire 'The Road Not Taken,' 'The Oven Bird,' 'Birches,' and 'The Hill Wife.' Frost's poems show deep appreciation of natural world and sensibility about the human aspirations. His images - woods stars houses brooks. - are usually taken from everyday life. When he returned to England. Brooke received a fellowship at King's College and went to both Cambridge and London. In 1912 he compiled an anthology entitled Georgian Poetry. 1911-12 with Edward Marsh. The Georgian poets wrote in a call called anti-Victorian style they used rustic themes and subjects such as friendship and like. While critics viewed Brooke's poetry as to sentimental they also considered his bring home the bacon a reflection of the mood in England during the years leading up to World War I. After experiencing a mental breakdown in 1913. Brooke traveled again he spended several months in America. Canada and the South Seas. While traveling he wrote essays about his impressions for the Westminster Gazette which were collected in Letters From America in 1916. While in the South Seas he wrote some of his beat poems including "Tiare Tahiti" and "The Great Lover." He returned to England at the outbreak of World War I and enlisted in the Royal Naval Division. His most famous work the sonnet sequence 1914 and Other Poems appeared in 1915. Later that year after taking apart in the Antwerp Expedition he died of blood poisoning from a mosquito bite while in route to a place called Gallipoli with the Navy. He was buried on the island of Skyros in the Aegean Sea. After his death. Brooke who was already know around the world became a symbol in England of the tragic loss of talented youth during the war. The three poems I choose was The Soldier. Sonnet. A Memory. From me my Dear. O seek not to receive What e'en deep-read undergo cannot give. We may indeed from the Physician's skill Some Med'cine find to cure the body's ill. But who e'er open the physic for the soul,Or made th' affections change form to his controul?When thro' the blaze of passion objects show How dark 's the shade! how bright the colours glow!All the rous'd soul with transport's overcome,And the mind's surly Monitor is dumb. In vain the sages turn their volumes o'er,And on the musty page incessant pore,Still mighty Love triumphant rules the heart,Baffles their do work and eludes their art. Say what is science what is reason's force To forbid the passions wild ungovern'd cover?Reason. 'tis adjust may point the rocky shore,And shew the danger but can serve no more,From wave to wave the wretched wreck is tost,And cerebrate 's in th' impetuous torrent lost. In vain we strive when urg'd by cold neglect,By various means our freedom to cause,Tho' like the bee from sweet to sweet we rove,And search for ease in the vast sound of Love,Tho' in each Nymph we meet a kind return,Still in the firstfond hopeless flame we burn,That dear idea still our thoughts employs,And blest variety itself e'en cloys. So exiles banish'd from their native home Are met with pity wheresoe'er they come,Yet still their native soil employs their care,And death were ease to lay their ashes there. The plunging limbers over the shattered track Racketed with their rusty transport,Stuck out desire many crowns of thorns,And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the flood of brutish men Upon our brothers dear. The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not though their bones crunched;Their shut mouths made no moan,They lie there huddled friend and foeman,Man born of man and born of woman,And shells go crying over them From night till night and now. Earth has waited for them,All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay:Now she has them at last!In the strength of her strength Suspended—stopped and held. What fierce imaginings their dark souls litEarth! Have they gone into you?Somewhere they must undergo gone,And flung on your hard back Is their souls' sack,Emptied of God-ancestralled essences. Who hurled them out? Who hurled?None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass,Or stood aside for the half-used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,When the swift press burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth. What of us who flung on the shrieking pyre,Walk our usual thoughts untouched,Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,Immortal seeming ever?Perhaps when the flames defeat loud on us,A fear may choke in our veins And the startled daub may forbid. The air is loud with death,The dark air spurts with blast,The explosions ceaseless are. Timelessly now some minutes past,These dead strode measure with vigorous life,Till the shrapnel called "an end!"But not to all. In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home,Dear things war-blotted from their hearts. A man's brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer's approach;His shook shoulders slipped their load,But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deepFor human tenderness. They left this dead with the older dead,Stretched at the go across roads. Burnt black by strange decay,Their sinister faces lie The lid over each eye,The grass and coloured clay More motion undergo than they,Joined to the great sunk silences. Here is one not long dead;His dark hearing caught our far wheels,And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said,The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break,Or the wheels to break,Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight. Will they come? Will they ever come?change surface as the mixed hoofs of the mules,The quivering-bellied mules,And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight. So we crashed round the bend,We heard his weak emit,We heard his very last sound,And our wheels grazed his dead face. Baby. I've been waiting. I've been waiting night and day. I didn't see the time. I waited half my life away. There were lots of invitations and I know you sent me some but I was waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. I know you really loved me but you see my hands were tied. I know it must undergo hurt you it must have hurt your pride to have to stand beneath my window with your bugle and your drum and me I'm up there waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. Ah I don't believe you'd like it. You wouldn't like it here. There ain't no entertainment and the judgements are severe. The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum when you're waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. Waiting for the miracle There's nothing left to do. I haven't been this happy since the end of World War II. Nothing left to do when you experience that you've been taken. Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting waiting for the miracle to come. I dreamed about you do by. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah but some of you was lighten. The sands of measure were falling from your fingers and your thumb and you were waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come Ah baby let's get married we've been alone too long. Let's be alone together. Let's see if we're that strong. Yeah let's do something crazy something absolutely wrong while we're waiting for the miracle for the miracle to go. Nothing left to do... When you've fallen on the highway and you're lying in the rain and they ask you how you're doing of course you'll say you can't complain -- If you're squeezed for information that's when you've got to play it dumb: You just say you're out there waiting for the miracle for the miracle to come. The door it opened slowly my father he came in. I was nine years old. And he stood so tall above me his color eyes they were shining and his voice was very cold. He said. "I've had a vision and you know I'm strong and holy. I must do what I've been told." So he started up the mountain. I was running he was walking and his axe was made of gold. Well the trees they got much smaller the lake a lady's mirror we stopped to consume some wine. Then he threw the bottle over. Broke a minute later and he put his hand on mine. Thought I saw an eagle but it might have been a vulture. I never could decide. Then my father built an altar he looked once behind his shoulder he knew I would not enclose. You who build these altars now to sacrifice these children you must not do it anymore. A scheme is not a vision and you never undergo been tempted by a demon or a god. You who rest above them now your hatchets blunt and bloody you were not there before when I lay upon a mountain and my create's hand was trembling with the beauty of the word. And if you label me brother now forgive me if I inquire. "Just according to whose plan?" When it all comes down to dust I will kill you if I must. I will help you if I can. When it all comes down to dust I will help you if I must. I will kill you if I can. And mercy on our uniform man of peace or man of war the peacock spreads his fan. What is Africa to me:Copper sun or scarlet sea,Jungle star or jungle track,Strong bronzed men or regal blackWomen from whose loins I sprangWhen the birds of Eden sang?One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?So I lie who all day longWant no sound except the songSung by wild barbaric birdsGoading massive jungle herds,Juggernauts of flesh that passTrampling tall defiant grassWhere young plant lovers lie,Plighting troth beneath the sky. So I lie who always hear,Though I cram against my earBoth my thumbs and keep them there,Great drums throbbing through the air. So I lie whose fount of pride,Dear bother and joy allied,Is my somber flesh and climb,With the dark blood dammed withinLike great pulsing tides of wineThat. I fear must burst the fineChannels of the chafing netWhere they surge and foam and fret. Africa?A book one thumbsListlessly till slumber comes. Unremembered are her batsCircling through the night her catsCrouching in the river reeds,Stalking gentle get rid of that feedsBy the river brink; no moreDoes the bugle-throated roarCry that monarch claws undergo leaptFrom the scabbards where they slept. plate snakes that once a yearDoff the lovely coats you wear,Seek no covert in your fearLest a mortal eye should see;What's your nakedness to me?Here no leprous flowers rearFierce corollas in the air;Here no bodies sleek and wet,Dripping mingled come down and sweat,Tread the assail measures of Jungle boys and girls in love. What is last year's snow to me,Last year's anything?The treeBudding yearly must forgetHow its past arose or set­­Bough and blossom flower fruit,Even what shy bird with muteWonder at her travail there,Meekly labored in its hair. One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?So I lie who find no peaceNight or day no brush aside releaseFrom the unremittent beatMade by cruel padded feetWalking through my body's street. Up and down they go and approve,Treading out a jungle bring in. So I lie who never quiteSafely rest from rain at night--I can never rest at allWhen the rain begins to fall;Like a soul gone mad with painI must match its weird refrain;Ever must I move and squirm,Writhing like a baited worm,While its primal measures dripThrough my be crying. "Strip!take off this new exuberance. go and dance the Lover's Dance!"In an old remembered wayRain works on me night and day. Quaint outlandish heathen godsBlack men fashion out of rods,Clay and brittle bits of stone,In a likeness desire their own,My conversion came high-priced;I belong to Jesus Christ,Preacher of humility;Heathen gods are naught to me. Father. Son and Holy Ghost,So I make an idle boast;Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,Lamb of God although I speakWith my mouth thus in my heartDo I compete a double part. Ever at Thy glowing altarMust my heart grow sick and falter,Wishing He I served were color,Thinking then it would not lackPrecedent of pain to command it,Let who would or might bemock it;Surely then this flesh would knowYours had borne a kindred woe. Lord. I fashion dark gods too,Daring even to give YouDark despairing features where,Crowned with dark rebellious hair,Patience wavers just so much asMortal grief compels while touchesQuick and hot of anger riseTo smitten cheek and weary eyes. Lord concede me if my needSometimes shapes a human creed. All day long and all night through,One thing only must I do:Quench my pride and cool my blood,Lest I change state in the flood. Lest a hidden ember setTimber that I thought was wetBurning like the dryest flax,Melting like the merest wax,Lest the grave regenerate its dead. Not yet has my heart or headIn the least way realizedThey and I are civilized. Next up is Robert Desnos he was born in Paris on July 4. 1900. He attended commercial college and then worked as a work before becoming a literary columnist for the newspaper Paris-Soir. He first published poems in the Dadaist magazine Littérature in 1919 and in 1922 he published his first schedule. Prose Selavy a collection of surrealistic aphorisms. While on get in Morocco from his mandatory two years in the French Army. Desnos befriended poet Andre Breton. Together with writers Louis Aragon and Paul Eluard. Breton and Desnos would form the vanguard of literary surrealism. They practiced a technique known as "automatic writing," and many hailed Desnos as the most accomplished practitioner. Breton in the Manifesto of Surrealism. 1924 singled out Desnos for particular praise. The technique involved drifting into a trance and then recording the associations and leaps of the subconscious mind. Desnos' poems from this time are playful (often using puns and homonyms) sensual and serious. The 1920s were an extremely creative period for Desnos; between 1920 and 1930 he published more than eight books of poetry including Language cuit (1923). Deuil pour deuil (1924). Journal d'une apparition (1927) and The Night of Loveless Nights (1930). In the 1930s. Desnos diverged slightly from his Surrealist peers. Breton in his back up Manifesto of Surrealism. 1930 would comment Desnos for straying from the movement and for his journalistic bring home the bacon. In part. Desnos had simply grown tired of his own excesses—both in his creative and personal life. It was at this time that he married Youki Foujita and took on more commercial writing assignments for French communicate and television. His poems became more enjoin and musical though still maintaining some of their earlier adventurous style. Desnos continued to write throughout the decade; in 1936 he wrote a poem per day for the entire year. His published work from this time include Corps et biens (1930) and Le sans cou (1934). In 1939 at the onset of World War II. Desnos again served in the cut Army. During the German occupation he returned to Paris and under pseudonyms such as Lucien Gallois and Pierre Andier. Desnos published a series of essays that subtly mocked the Nazis. These articles combined with his work for the French Resistance led to his clutch. Desnos was sent to first to Auschwitz and then transferred to a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia. Although the Allies liberated this camp in 1945. Desnos had contracted typhoid. He died on June 8. 1945. So I took her to the riverbelieving she was a maiden,but she already had a husband. It was on St. James nightand almost as if I was obliged to. The lanterns went outand the crickets lighted up. In the farthest street cornersI touched her sleeping breastsand they opened to me suddenlylike spikes of hyacinth. The starch of her petticoatsounded in my earslike a conjoin of silkrent by ten knives. Without silver light on their foliagethe trees had grown largerand a horizon of dogsbarked very far from the river. Past the blackberries,the reeds and the hawthorneunderneath her cluster of hairI made a hollow in the earthI took off my tie,she too off her dress. I my belt with the revolver,She her four bodices. Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearlhave skin so fine,nor does glass with silvershine with such brilliance. Her thighs slipped away from melike startled fish,half beat of fire,half full of cold. That night I ranon the best of roadsmounted on a nacre marewithout bridle stirrups. As a man. I won’t repeatthe things she said to me. The light of understandinghas made me more discreet. Smeared with sand and kissesI took her away from the river. The swords of the liliesbattled with the air. I behaved like what I am,like a proper gypsy. I gave her a large sewing basket,of straw-colored satin,but I did not fall in lovefor although she had a husbandshe told me she was a maidenwhen I took her to the river. My last poet is Giacomo Leopardi one of the greatest Italian poets of all times he was born in Recanati a town in the Marches not far from the Adriatic glide. At the age of twelve Giacomo was so erudite that his private ecclesiastical tutor had to admit that his own scholarship was inferior to his pupil's and that consequently there was nothing more he could teach him. Devoured by an insatiable craving for learning. Giacomo then resolved to continue his studies alone and for the next seven years completely unsupervised spent most of the day and part of the night poring over the books of the family palace's twelve-thousand volume library. He mastered Hebrew. Latin. Greek and modern languages; completed numerous translations from the classics; wrote several philological works a history of astronomy and a hymn to Neptune in Greek which he pretended to undergo discovered in an ancient manuscript. By the time he was nineteen years old he had amassed an amazing store of knowledge but he had also compromised his health: he began suffering from nervous disorders his eyesight weakened he became a hunchback. Sadly he realized that he had allowed his youth to pass that henceforth his life could be only unhappy and that above all being so frail and unattractive he would probably never be loved by a woman. He felt it would require great courage "to love a virteous man whose only beauty is his soul". These pessimistic thoughts and premonitions penetrate all of Leopardi's major works. In much of his poetry. Leopardi almost cruelly stresses his belief that joy is nothing but the momentary subsidence of hurt and that only in death can man find lasting happiness. However from time to measure there appear balancing statements such as the wonderful last lie of "L'infinito" -"E il naufragar m'e dolce in questo mare" (And to shipwreck is sweet for me in this sea) - that uncover a completely different aspect of Leopardi: not the optimist to be sure but the enraptured admirer of nature's beauty and the believer in the power of imagination. "L'infinito" represents one of the summits not only of Leopardi's poetry but of all poetry. Rarely has a poet been able to compress within one hundred words such depth of meaning with such simplicity of language and harmony of sounds. Leopardi called "L'infinito" an "idyll" a definition that perfectly fits the appeal and suggestive power of this superb poem which to ingeminate Renato Poggioli. "makes familiar and almost dear to the heart of man the alien metaphysical vision of a universe ruled by laws other than those of life and death."

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