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Name That Poem


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OK.

Although I'm not sure anyone is actually playing :rolleyes:

 

Let us consider your application form.

Your qualifications, though impressive, are

Not, we must admit, precisely what

We had in mind. Would you care

To defend their relevance?

....................................Indeed.

 

(my row of dots, as I don't know how to indent the text) :dunce:

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What do I win?

As with many of our games/quizzes, the 'prize' is the privilege of setting the next question.

 

U.A. Fanthorpe is the poet, but what's the poem? (This thread is called "Name That Poem")

 

Oh, welcome to BGO, by the way. Would you care to pop in to the 'Please Introduce Yourself' thread in the Central Library, and say how you found your way here, and maybe tell us a little about yourself and your reading habits?

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This might be too easy. Then again, I don't want to offend anyone who finds it difficult.

 

Here's my favorite couplet from the poem:

 

While draping by a showman's trick

Their dishabille in rhetoric...

 

 

(I love the pretentious "dishabille.")

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I don't think Matthew will be too bothered if I take over. In the words of the thread title, quite simply: give me the title of this poem.

 

<blockquote>A hard, howling, tossing, water scene:

Strong tide was washing hero clean.

"How cold!" Weather stings as in anger.

O silent night shows war ace danger!

 

The cold waters swashing on in rage.

Redcoats warn slow his hint engage.

When general's star action wish'd "Go!"

He saw his ragged continentals row.

 

Ah, he stands – sailor crew went going,

And so this general watches rowing.

He hastens – Winter again grows cold;

A wet crew gain Hessian stronghold.

 

George can't lose war with's hands in;

He's astern – so, go alight, crew, and win!</blockquote>

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I remember what the poem is called, but not who wrote it. Am I allowed to say?

 

 

It's Washington Crossing the Delaware and its odd-sounding wording is because every line is an anagram.

Correct. I thought it clever but as you say, some lines do sound a bit odd.

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What poem is this?

THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers --

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

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