Warren suggests that easing through life is not the right path. That's nice—because you never know How far away it means to go; And when tomorrow comes, you see, It may be in the great wide sea. Be minimum, then, to swim the hiving swarms Out of the Square, the Circle burning bright— Avoid the glass doors gyring at your right, Where boxed alone a second, eyes take fright —Quite unprepared rush naked back to light: And down beside the turnstile press the coin Into the slot. Its long-drawn spell Incites a yell. When he succeeded, he decided to build a bridge.
They were terrified at the thought of facing an entire army. The Bridge of the title is New York's Brooklyn Bridge. That's usually a bad sign, either for the poet in question or the reader in question. Tendo vivido a sua juventude nos anos 20 do século passado, Hart Crane absorveu todo a dinâmica modernista americana, se bem que com menos entusiasmo que Walt e bem mais entusiasmo que Emily. The bridge is bordered on one side by forest and, across the stream, open ground that gives way to a small hillock on which a small fort has been erected. And they are awkward, ponderous and uncoy. And yet, like Lazarus, to feel the slope, The sod and billow breaking,—lifting ground, —A sound of waters bending astride the sky Unceasing with some Word that will not die.
O caught like pennies beneath soot and steam, Kiss of our agony thou gatherest; Condensed, thou takest all—shrill ganglia Impassioned with some song we fail to keep. I had read some of Hart Crane's poetry before The Bridge, and was impressed, but not blown-away. Whose hideous laughter is a bellows mirth —Or the muffled slaughter of a day in birth— O cruelly to inoculate the brinking dawn With antennae toward worlds that glow and sink;— To spoon us out more liquid than the dim Locution of the eldest star, and pack The conscience navelled in the plunging wind, Umbilical to call—and straightway die! Slid on that backward vision The mind is churned to spittle, whispering hell. While his wife was fetching the water, Farquhar asked for news of the front and was informed that Northern forces had repaired the railroads in anticipation of launching another advance, having already reached the Owl Creek bridge. After the corridors are swept, the cuspidors— The gaunt sky-barracks cleanly now, and bare, O Genoese, do you bring mother eyes and hands Back home to children and to golden hair? Crane, by contrast, and despite his own stigmatized queerness and the poem's homoerotic subtext, strikes the old poetic pose, going back to Dante and Petrarch and the Troubadours, of a male speaker and agent seeking consummation with a mute, abstract bride, a quest object as inert as its vulvic counterpart, the Holy Grail.
If the Romans could get their people across the bridges over the Tiber, then knock down the bridges, they would be safe from Tarquin. The embers of the Cross Climbed by aslant and huddling aromatically. John, Jake, or Charley, hopping the slow freight - Memphis to Tallahassee- riding the rods, Blind fists of nothing, humpty-dumpty clods. I think I'll get some stones to throw, And watch the pretty circles show. It is a difficult and hard-won vision of the mythic, the secular, and the personal promise of American life. However, because he writes with his own theory of personal metaphor, the underlying meaning of the pieces is often obscured and I think on some level it lacks the philosophical weight of T.
The appearance of the bridge secretly encrypts a highly personal memory and a specific presence in the text. Moreover, doesn't Crane's ultimate celebration of American possibility and progressive modernity fit in better with our civic religion, our incorrigible patriotism? That of a mighty city, full of the amazing accomplishments of man. The train rounds, bending to a scream, Taking the final level for the dive Under the river— And somewhat emptier than before, Demented, for a hitching second, humps; then Lets go. A fantastic use of metaphor, although it's almost incomprehensible at first glance. Kate Greenaway also wrote the rhymes fo.
Sometimes these kings were Roman, sometimes these kings were Etruscan. He quickly removes a piece of metal that sticks in his neck. The Etruscans threw spears at him. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! In Crane's poem, the Brooklyn Bridge is a symbol of power and industrialization and of the promise it offers to modern life. Beyond them, armed sentinels stand at attention. How could one man face an army and live? He stood on the bridge and faced the Etruscan army alone.
They then exiled him back to the Etruscan league. They were too few to stop the Etruscan army, yet all knew if they didn't stop the Etruscans and knock down the bridge, the city of Rome was doomed. The dusty road that slopes Past is perhaps the high road south, A symbol of world-wondering youth, Of adolescent hopes And privileges; But stops to find The girls content to gaze At the unplumbed, reflective lake, Their plangent conversational quack Expressive of calm days And peace of mind. Porsena sent a message to Rome saying they should receive Tarquin as their king, and when the Romans refused, he declared war on them. I want to see his great round eyes Always open in surprise. What do your studenst think they were? Life might be more enriched by doing it a bit differently.
Though the poem follows a thematic progress, it freely juggles various points in time. A tradução de Maria Guimarães sacrifica algum significado directo, abrindo a porta a uma interpretação pessoal do poema, por parte da tradutora. The cycle starts with with a very abstract homage to the Brooklyn Bridge: And Thee, across the harbor, silver paced As though the sun took step of thee yet left Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,— Implicitly thy freedom staying thee! Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way. The heroic leader was known for fighting against Etruscan invaders such as Lars Porsena and his invading army. ! Weekenders avid of their turf-won scores, Here three hours from the semaphores, the Czars Of golf, by twos and threes in plaid plusfours Alight with sticks abristle and cigars.