#readingcomprehension — Public Fediverse posts

“Spring Rain” by Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American poet, celebrated for her works that explored themes such as love, beauty, nature, and mortality. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, she published her first collection of poems in 1907 as a member of “The Potters”—a group of young women authors. She quickly gained recognition for the clarity and simplicity of her writing. Notably, she won a Pullitzer prize in 1918 for the collection Love Songs. Sadly, her life was marked by severe personal struggles, including a lonely marriage, divorce, and declining health, ultimately leading to her tragic death by suicide. She is still remembered as an important voice of the early 20th-century American literature.

In this post we’ll get acquainted with her poem “Spring Rain”, first published in 1917. In many ways typical of her style of writing, the poem is simple yet deep, using imagery from the natural world to reflect on the poet’s emotions and memories. In the first stanza, the sounds of rain and thunder trigger a recollection of a past love; the rest of the poem takes us down the memory lane. You’ll notice that the poem itself is brief, just like a typical spring rain; and the weather described is stormy and intense—just like passionate young love.

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say...

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

RECOMMENDED RESOURCES

Love Songs by Sara Teasdale – free ebook, downloadable in various formats

Sara Teasdale’s biography – a Poetry Foundation page

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Image by Levi Guzman via Unsplash

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the subscribe box below.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

“Spring Rain” by Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American poet, celebrated for her works that explored themes such as love, beauty, nature, and mortality. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, she published her first collection of poems in 1907 as a member of “The Potters”—a group of young women authors. She quickly gained recognition for the clarity and simplicity of her writing. Notably, she won a Pullitzer prize in 1918 for the collection Love Songs. Sadly, her life was marked by severe personal struggles, including a lonely marriage, divorce, and declining health, ultimately leading to her tragic death by suicide. She is still remembered as an important voice of the early 20th-century American literature.

In this post we’ll get acquainted with her poem “Spring Rain”, first published in 1917. In many ways typical of her style of writing, the poem is simple yet deep, using imagery from the natural world to reflect on the poet’s emotions and memories. In the first stanza, the sounds of rain and thunder trigger a recollection of a past love; the rest of the poem takes us down the memory lane. You’ll notice that the poem itself is brief, just like a typical spring rain; and the weather described is stormy and intense—just like passionate young love.

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say...

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

RECOMMENDED RESOURCES

Love Songs by Sara Teasdale – free ebook, downloadable in various formats

Sara Teasdale’s biography – a Poetry Foundation page

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Image by Levi Guzman via Unsplash

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the subscribe box below.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

“Spring Rain” by Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American poet, celebrated for her works that explored themes such as love, beauty, nature, and mortality. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, she published her first collection of poems in 1907 as a member of “The Potters”—a group of young women authors. She quickly gained recognition for the clarity and simplicity of her writing. Notably, she won a Pullitzer prize in 1918 for the collection Love Songs. Sadly, her life was marked by severe personal struggles, including a lonely marriage, divorce, and declining health, ultimately leading to her tragic death by suicide. She is still remembered as an important voice of the early 20th-century American literature.

In this post we’ll get acquainted with her poem “Spring Rain”, first published in 1917. In many ways typical of her style of writing, the poem is simple yet deep, using imagery from the natural world to reflect on the poet’s emotions and memories. In the first stanza, the sounds of rain and thunder trigger a recollection of a past love; the rest of the poem takes us down the memory lane. You’ll notice that the poem itself is brief, just like a typical spring rain; and the weather described is stormy and intense—just like passionate young love.

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say...

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

RECOMMENDED RESOURCES

Love Songs by Sara Teasdale – free ebook, downloadable in various formats

Sara Teasdale’s biography – a Poetry Foundation page

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Image by Levi Guzman via Unsplash

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the subscribe box below.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

“Spring Rain” by Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American poet, celebrated for her works that explored themes such as love, beauty, nature, and mortality. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, she published her first collection of poems in 1907 as a member of “The Potters”—a group of young women authors. She quickly gained recognition for the clarity and simplicity of her writing. Notably, she won a Pullitzer prize in 1918 for the collection Love Songs. Sadly, her life was marked by severe personal struggles, including a lonely marriage, divorce, and declining health, ultimately leading to her tragic death by suicide. She is still remembered as an important voice of the early 20th-century American literature.

In this post we’ll get acquainted with her poem “Spring Rain”, first published in 1917. In many ways typical of her style of writing, the poem is simple yet deep, using imagery from the natural world to reflect on the poet’s emotions and memories. In the first stanza, the sounds of rain and thunder trigger a recollection of a past love; the rest of the poem takes us down the memory lane. You’ll notice that the poem itself is brief, just like a typical spring rain; and the weather described is stormy and intense—just like passionate young love.

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say...

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

RECOMMENDED RESOURCES

Love Songs by Sara Teasdale – free ebook, downloadable in various formats

Sara Teasdale’s biography – a Poetry Foundation page

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Image by Levi Guzman via Unsplash

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the subscribe box below.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

“Spring Rain” by Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American poet, celebrated for her works that explored themes such as love, beauty, nature, and mortality. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, she published her first collection of poems in 1907 as a member of “The Potters”—a group of young women authors. She quickly gained recognition for the clarity and simplicity of her writing. Notably, she won a Pullitzer prize in 1918 for the collection Love Songs. Sadly, her life was marked by severe personal struggles, including a lonely marriage, divorce, and declining health, ultimately leading to her tragic death by suicide. She is still remembered as an important voice of the early 20th-century American literature.

In this post we’ll get acquainted with her poem “Spring Rain”, first published in 1917. In many ways typical of her style of writing, the poem is simple yet deep, using imagery from the natural world to reflect on the poet’s emotions and memories. In the first stanza, the sounds of rain and thunder trigger a recollection of a past love; the rest of the poem takes us down the memory lane. You’ll notice that the poem itself is brief, just like a typical spring rain; and the weather described is stormy and intense—just like passionate young love.

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say...

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

RECOMMENDED RESOURCES

Love Songs by Sara Teasdale – free ebook, downloadable in various formats

Sara Teasdale’s biography – a Poetry Foundation page

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Image by Levi Guzman via Unsplash

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the subscribe box below.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

Free ebook: “Departure” by Sherwood Anderson

Dear all,

It’s the spring equinox and the time for another quarterly ebook. This time it’s a short story by Sherwood Anderson (1876-1941), American novelist and short story writer best known for his book ” Winesburg, Ohio: A Group of Tales of Ohio Small Town Life.”

Departure comes from that same collection of stories. It’s about a young man leaving his small hometown to begin a new life in a big city. As he’s leaving, thoughts about the familiar people and places fill him with melancholy. It’s a bittersweet story that I hope you will enjoy!

To get your PDF copy with vocabulary notes, please click on the link below:

CLICK HERE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD

If you’d like to access more ebooks, visit the English Library section of this website.

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

If you wish to receive new content from my blog – as soon as it’s published – please enter your email address in the box below. You can also subscribe to my free monthly Newsletter and get a regular recap with additional content.

To support my work, you can send me a donation via PayPal. It would be greatly appreciated!

COVER PHOTO CREDIT

Jake Sheppard via Unsplash

Reading’s Thin Line Between Difficult and Boring

https://web.brid.gy/r/https://www.educationnext.org/readings-thin-line-between-difficult-and-boring/

Reading’s Thin Line Between Difficult and Boring

https://web.brid.gy/r/https://www.educationnext.org/readings-thin-line-between-difficult-and-boring/

Reading’s Thin Line Between Difficult and Boring

https://web.brid.gy/r/https://www.educationnext.org/readings-thin-line-between-difficult-and-boring/

Reading’s Thin Line Between Difficult and Boring

https://web.brid.gy/r/https://www.educationnext.org/readings-thin-line-between-difficult-and-boring/

Reading’s Thin Line Between Difficult and Boring

https://web.brid.gy/r/https://www.educationnext.org/readings-thin-line-between-difficult-and-boring/

Calling all #readers and #writers! Are your skills up to the challenge?

Suneung: #SouthKorea exam chief quits over 'insane' #English test https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c3w792x0ggyo

#education #standardizedtesting #readingcomprehension #college

If we don't want to say and do horrible things accidentally, reading comprehension is very important.

Especially on the Internet, where we could have nuance...

...if we ever chose to make any space whatsoever for it.

#AntiRacism #Racism #SocialJustice #ReadingComprehension #Nuance #OnlineDiscourse #Discourse

Mailed a few people: “Please provide input for subject A in this document [link] and for subject B in this document [link] in our shared SwitchDrive folder” (Yes, everyone involved has access to it!)

Resulting in my inbox exploding with reply-to-alls mixing both subjects, commenting on some of the ideas mentioned, lengthy praising of each other, etc.

What’s wrong with people?

#AcademicChatter #ReadingComprehension

‘Leave a Book, Take a Book’: Mini-library project encourages love for reading

https://fed.brid.gy/r/https://interaksyon.philstar.com/hobbies-interests/2025/08/15/300614/leave-book-take-book-mini-library-love-for-reading/

🍃✨ Dive into the enchanting world of #TheHungryCaterpillar! Follow along as this tiny, determined caterpillar munches his way through vibrant pages, growing and transforming with every bite. A delightful tale of change and discovery, perfect for curious little minds. 🐛🍎 #StoryTime #ChildrensBooks #MagicalJourney #TheHungryCaterpillar #ESLReading #LearnEnglish #ESLStudents #EnglishLearning #ESLClassroom #ChildrensBooks #ESLTeaching #VocabularyBuilding #ReadingComprehension #ESLActivities

#TheHungryCaterpillar #ESLReading #LearnEnglish #ESLStudents #EnglishLearning #ESLClassroom #ChildrensBooks #ESLTeaching #VocabularyBuilding #ReadingComprehension #ESLActivities #FunLearning #EnglishForKids #StoryTime #CaterpillarStory #LanguageLearning #ESLFun #InteractiveLearning #EnglishPractice #ESLResources#TheHungryCaterpillar #ESLReading #LearnEnglish #ESLStudents #EnglishLearning #ESLClassroom #ChildrensBooks #ESLTeaching #VocabularyBuilding

[email protected]

With the arrival of #spring, it’s time for another quarterly #ebook from the Grammaticus Free Library series: “Four Stories for Spring” by Ellen Robena Field.

It contains four short stories, with the accompanying vocabulary notes and illustrations designed primarily for English language learners (levels B1 and above).

https://grammaticus.blog/2025/03/19/free-ebook-four-stories-for-spring/

#learningenglish #childrensbooks #shortstories #reading #readingcomprehension #americanliterature

Free ebook: “Four Stories for Spring” by Ellen Robena Field

Dear friends and followers of the Grammaticus blog,

With the arrival of spring, it’s time for another quarterly ebook from the Grammaticus Free Library series: “Four Stories for Spring.” 

The author of these stories is Ellen Robena Field (1869–1957), a children’s writer and educator from Bangor, Maine. Nowadays sadly overlooked, she is best known for her collection of short stories “Buttercup Gold and Other Stories”, originally published by the Bangor Kindergarten Association in 1894.

The ebook here available contains four spring-themed stories from that collection, with the accompanying vocabulary notes and illustrations designed primarily for English language learners (levels B1 and above).

To download your PDF copy, click on the link below. To browse all the previous Grammaticus Free Library titles, visit the Library section of this website.

CLICK HERE FOR FREE DOWNLOAD

NOTE

If you wish to receive new content from the Grammaticus blog in your inbox, please enter your email address in the box below. You can also subscribe to my free monthly Newsletter.

COVER IMAGE CREDIT

Photo by Kiwihug via Unsplash

#AmericanLiterature #childrenSLiterature #ebook #EllenRobenaField #EnglishLiterature #EnglishVocabulary #freeDownload #freebie #learningEnglish #literature #readingComprehension #readingSkills #shortStories

🤔 Oh, Chester Lam! 🎉 Thank you for enlightening us on the groundbreaking revelation that Intel’s Arc #B580 does, in fact, not defy basic geometry. A stunning exposé on how reading comprehension is still a crucial skill for tech journalists! 📚🤦‍♂️
https://chipsandcheese.com/p/raytracing-on-intels-arc-b580 #IntelArc #readingcomprehension #techjournalism #geometrictruths #ChesterLam #HackerNews #ngated

🤔 Oh, Chester Lam! 🎉 Thank you for enlightening us on the groundbreaking revelation that Intel’s Arc #B580 does, in fact, not defy basic geometry. A stunning exposé on how reading comprehension is still a crucial skill for tech journalists! 📚🤦‍♂️
https://chipsandcheese.com/p/raytracing-on-intels-arc-b580 #IntelArc #readingcomprehension #techjournalism #geometrictruths #ChesterLam #HackerNews #ngated

🤔 Oh, Chester Lam! 🎉 Thank you for enlightening us on the groundbreaking revelation that Intel’s Arc #B580 does, in fact, not defy basic geometry. A stunning exposé on how reading comprehension is still a crucial skill for tech journalists! 📚🤦‍♂️
https://chipsandcheese.com/p/raytracing-on-intels-arc-b580 #IntelArc #readingcomprehension #techjournalism #geometrictruths #ChesterLam #HackerNews #ngated

🤔 Oh, Chester Lam! 🎉 Thank you for enlightening us on the groundbreaking revelation that Intel’s Arc #B580 does, in fact, not defy basic geometry. A stunning exposé on how reading comprehension is still a crucial skill for tech journalists! 📚🤦‍♂️
https://chipsandcheese.com/p/raytracing-on-intels-arc-b580 #IntelArc #readingcomprehension #techjournalism #geometrictruths #ChesterLam #HackerNews #ngated

🤔 Oh, Chester Lam! 🎉 Thank you for enlightening us on the groundbreaking revelation that Intel’s Arc #B580 does, in fact, not defy basic geometry. A stunning exposé on how reading comprehension is still a crucial skill for tech journalists! 📚🤦‍♂️
https://chipsandcheese.com/p/raytracing-on-intels-arc-b580 #IntelArc #readingcomprehension #techjournalism #geometrictruths #ChesterLam #HackerNews #ngated

[P] So...

News: Assassin's Creed: Shadows has leaked physical copies early, they've been seen on sale at retail outlets and warehouses.
Resounding Response from Gamers: The pirates win AGAIN. SIGH. Stupid pirates always getting to play before paying customers!

Errrr... about that.

#videogames #piracy #readingcomprehension

“Beautiful Snow” by John Whittaker Watson

John Whittaker Watson was a 19th century poet and journalist from New York. The author of many serials, poems and short stories published in various magazines, today he is probably best known for his poem “Beautiful Snow.” It is found in the collection of poems by the same title, published in Philadelphia in 1871.

I first heard of this poem in an episode of my all-time favourite TV shows from the 1990s, Northern Exposure. I’m sure fellow fans will immediately recognise it as the poem featured in the “First Snow” episode (season 5, episode 10), read out by Chris Stevens on his radio show. And if you have no idea what I’m talking about here, please check out the links below the poem. And go watch some Northern Exposure!

O THE SNOW, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below!
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,
          Dancing,        
            Flirting,
              Skimming along.
Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong.
Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek;
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak;        
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel and fickle as love!

O the snow, the beautiful snow!
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!
Whirling about in its maddening fun,        
It plays in its glee with every one.
          Chasing,
            Laughing,
              Hurrying by,
It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye;        
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around.
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How the wild crowd go swaying along,        
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges like meteors flash by,—
Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye!
          Ringing,
            Swinging,        
              Dashing they go
Over the crest of the beautiful snow:
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by;
To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet        
Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street.

Once I was pure as the snows,—but I fell:
Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven—to hell:
Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street:
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat.        
          Pleading,
            Cursing,
              Dreading to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,        
Hating the living and fearing the dead.
Merciful God! have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow;        
Once I was loved for my innocent grace,—
Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.
          Father,
            Mother,
              Sisters all,        
God, and myself, I have lost by my fall.
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh;
For all that is on or about me, I know
There is nothing that ’s pure but the beautiful snow.        

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it would be, when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
          Fainting,        
            Freezing,
              Dying alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town,
Gone mad in its joy at the snow’s coming down;        
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!

LINKS

“Beautiful Snow, and Other Poems”: full e-version of the collection

Northern Exposure Wiki: the “First Snow” entry

Oh, the Snow – insert from the “First Snow” episode of Northern Exposure

COVER IMAGE CREDIT

Simon Berger via Unsplash

I had so much trouble parsing this subject line.

Like, why is the ABC sending me emails about a person whose username is Jerky Sales expressing their approval of a social media item entitled ‘flowers for men’

#ReadingComprehension #TooEarly

I had so much trouble parsing this subject line.

Like, why is the ABC sending me emails about a person whose username is Jerky Sales expressing their approval of a social media item entitled ‘flowers for men’

#ReadingComprehension #TooEarly

Didn't quite realized I had volunteered to chair the thing I agreed to do, but there it is, in the middle of the fourth paragraph of the email from April. Sigh. Looks like the next two weeks just got busier #ProfLife #ReadingComprehension #PastMeWasAnIdiotAndImNotSoSureAboutPresentMe

this is your brain on words…

Boost Your Brain: Scientists Develop New Method To Improve Your Reading Efficiency #neuroscience #ReadingComprehension #psychology https://scitechdaily.com/boost-your-brain-scientists-develop-new-method-to-improve-your-reading-efficiency/

Essay: “The Poet” by William Maccall

Delivered as one in a series of lectures in the autumn of 1840, the following essay by William Maccall was originally published in his book The Agents of Civilization in 1843. In it, the author—a lesser-known Scottish writer and Unitarian minister—expounds on the role of poets in the development of a civilized, cultured society. Unavoidably, he has a lot to say on the subject of poetry itself: its origins, character, and purpose. Written almost two centuries ago, Maccall’s view of poets and poetry remains relevant, inspiring, and thought-provoking.

With very few exceptions, I have preserved the original spelling and punctuation. Alterations have been made in the division of paragraphs, in order to make Maccall’s train of thought easier to follow in this digital format. 

Below the essay, you will find several discussion points, along with suggestions for further reading. Do feel free to share your thoughts in the comments section at the bottom of this page. And if you like this kind of content, you can subscribe to my monthly Newsletter and never miss a post from the Grammaticus blog.

Poetry is composed of two things;—of the natural perception of the beautiful, and of the artistic development of this perception. In the former sense, we are all poets; in the latter sense, only a few possess the divine gift, and merit the distinguished name. We are all poets; for we are all capable of seizing, among the aspects of the actual, that harmony of proportions which constitutes beauty, and of finding in the field of the possible and the spiritual, that image of perfection of which eternal grace and sublimity are simply the embodiments. That meanest event, the most insignificant object, if suggestive to us of brighter thoughts and deeper feelings than those that people the range of our ordinary musings, become for us a poetical event—a poetical object. 

Poetry, like religion, lies not in the outward universe, but in the inward soul. We take no glory from the region of being without us, which we have not first given from the region of being within. The circumstances that surround us may excite a particular series of contemplations, or stimulate to a particular series of actions; but they cannot in any sense be called the creators of such contemplations or of such actions; for it was our own brain or heart that had previously clothed the circumstances with their suggestiveness. There must, therefore, be in all minds the tendency to idealise the common, and to rise above the habitual, from the plastic energy which is the natural endowment of all minds, which moulds and colors the whole mass mass of existence, and which can modify everything, indeed, but individual identity. If the process by which we receive ordinary revealings from creation be itself a species of creation, that process guarantees a further process, by which we are made the recipients of extraordinary revealings from the same source. 

To take a familiar instance. When we gaze on some picturesque landscape, the impressions that it produces, which differ not from our customary impressions, we are not entitled to denominate poetical; its poetry consists in the nobler and newer impressions that it bestows. But both the old and the fresh impressions are emanations from ourselves; they are not peculiarities of the landscape. And the extraordinary impressions are the necessary offspring of the ordinary, because the ordinary were once extraordinary; the whole of our career is a train of transitions by which the uncommon becomes the common; and the susceptibility to former extraordinariness and uncommonness, must be of course identical with the susceptibility of wonder and admiration at present novelty. 

The entire life of every man may thus be proved to be poetical, however mechanical and prosaic in the texture of its incidents. If every man has the natural perception of the beautiful, and the natural perception of the harmonious, and if this perception lies at the foundation of poetry; if the relation of every man to the universe is a plastic and spiritualizing relation, and if this relation is the first evolvement of poetry; if every man has the susceptibility of the uncommon and the extraordinary, and if the interweavement of this susceptibility with his activities is the continued progress of poetry; —then must every man be poetical. 

It does not alter the case to say, that few are conscious of all this from an analysis of their faculties. Multitudes of men are ignorant of the facts of human physiology; but that does not stop in those who are ignorant, the play of the lungs, or the circulation of the blood. From the artificial notions that prevail in the world on all subjects, many suppose that poetry is only a special mode of composition, in contradistinction to prose. When told, what I have just been propounding, that poetry is an essential and unpausing vitality of every rational intelligence, they would immediately conclude that such a doctrine is a monstrous paradox. But it is a paradox to them, only because their literary associations are as conventional as their social life. Let them forget their literary conventionalism, and give themselves up to the fresh impulses of nature, and they will quickly discover that what I have been declaring is an eternal truth. 

Suppose each person now before me, were to furnish me with his autobiography, what would be its most striking and interesting features? Not the outward fact; but the successive steps of mental growth: and one of the prime movers in that mental growth must have been imagination. The aim to construct a world of unspeakable splendor beyond and above the tangible, must ever have been present, though it might seldom clothe itself with utterances that could convey to others any accurate picture of its aspirings. Yet what were its various phases, but so many poetical unfoldings,—unfoldings which, if incorporated into the symmetry of an artistic form, would have constituted poems such as those that have made the Miltons and the Shakespeares famous? 

When we group vividly before our fancy, the past, the present, the future of our being—our doubts, our temptations, our hopes, our plans, our deeds—what we have vanquished, what we have yet to vanquish—the knowledge that we have gained, the knowledge that we seek—the mysteries that we have pierced, the mysteries whose meaning still evades the grasp of our researches,—and when we give to this contemplation the continuity and the comprehension of a whole, are we not thus doing the highest labor of the poet, though our epic poem is written only on the tablets of our brain? 

When we select a portion of this epic poem of our life, and dwell less on its relation to ourselves than on its positive constituents, and crowd it with the human creatures who gave it its animation, and with their words, and acts, and manners, and garb, and character, and place ourselves as coagents among them, fulfilling a part prominent or subordinate with them, but still only fulfilling a part,—we have unconsciously created, in what seemed merely a reverie, the whole of a dramatic poem. When we select another portion of this epic poem of our life, and cluster round it our burning sympathies for some object of affection or of patriotism, no whisper of emotion may flow from our lips, yet this process, forgotten almost as soon as finished, was the rapid and unwitting engraving of a lyrical inspiration upon our heart.

We all live, and think, and dream, more poetry than the greatest Poet has ever written. This does not lessen the merit of those to whom the name of Poet is more peculiarly applied. Their merit remains the same, whether or not we admit that all men are poets in the sense of poetical feeling, and conception, and aspiring. The power to give an artistic incorporation to an idea must always be an additional power to that which simply conceives the idea; a power therefore to be venerated and admired by those who possess it not. If it had no higher titles to praise, it would at least have that of spontaneous and conscientious employment in the elaboration of something definite; whereas the involuntary poetry that traverses our mind is no more worthy either of approval or of blame than the involuntary working, in health or sickness, of our material mechanism. 

But the Poet is more than a worker, as distinguished from the recipient of unspontaneous musings. He does what God did at creation; he communicates to an idea a permanent form, and makes an evanescent phantasy a visible, substantial, symmetrical reality. Few hath the Great Spirit endowed with this noble prerogative—the prerogative of garbing an idea in a drapery of sublimity or of grace; and therefore those few should be more willingly and fervently honored by the sons of men.

I have prefixed these remarks on the nature of poetry, in order that you might more accurately perceive the influence of the Poet as an Agent of Civilization. All men possessing the poetical faculty, it is the province of the Poet to nourish, to excite, to enlighten that faculty. This is his province; whether he employ prose or verse, truth or fiction, the simplest artistic exhibitions, or the most complicated. The value of his agency must therefore be ascertained from the value of that universal faculty in human beings to which he speaks. 

And what is the distinguishing value of that faculty? To give an interest and an attraction to duty which no other influence could present. Sympathy might occasionally urge us to generous deeds; a conviction of conscience might make us scrupulously perform what we conceived to be right; the deep motives of religion might support amid trial and struggle, and hallow the peril that they could not dispel: but Man need more than this—profound and perennial as are these and divers other sustainments. He needs something which, on the hardest sphere—on the meagrest detail of the habitual—may cast the rich lavishment of an impalpable glory, and vision of the supernatural, and revealing of the miraculous. He needs something which may tell him at every step, that what environs him, however fair, and brilliant, and happy, is but a diminutive fragment of his being. He needs not only to be pervaded by the thought that he belongs to the Immortal and the Infinite, and that his mind is endowed with powers that can march with an archangel’s boldness on the verge of eternal mysteries. 

This thought gives him the persuasion of his mental strength; of the magnitude and manifoldness of the objects that he can embrace, and of his destiny as a child of the Everlasting God. But he need something also, which, while softening and irradiating the actual, and making it eloquent with multiplied meanings, yet does so without that feeling of awfulness and of stringent consciousness which the metaphysical, the spiritual, the religious, are apt to occasion. Even those whose worldly circumstances are the most satisfactory, would scarcely be content to smile responsively to their smiling fortune, if they could not make their position radiant with hues and glad with melodies borrowed from the fairyland of their fancy. 

We never meet with a bliss, but we imagine a greater; we never meet with a success, but we imagine a more triumphant; we never gather a harvest on the field of truth, but we imagine a more abundant; we never gaze on a scene of nature, but we imagine a lovelier; we never contemplate a work of art, but we imagine a more sublimely conceived and a more elaborately finished. In these various cases, it is the poetical faculty within us that speaks; and which speaks thus, not, as might at first sight appear, to fill us with useless discontentment, but to pervade us with higher pleasures than what could have fallen to our lot, if what we saw and attained perfectly succeeded in satisfying the yearning of our bosom. 

If there was a definite attainable goodness, or a definite attainable truth, or a definite attainable beauty, our life would cease to be life, and our mind to be mind. It is in the search for the unattainable that our attainable felicity is placed. In our wanderings through heaven and earth, through space and time, our heart bounds rapturously at every renewed rush of our daring footsteps, not on account of the conquests that we have already gained, or the path of progress over which we have rapidly swept, but on account of the heights that are still above us, and the wonders that are still before us. And all poetry, by whatever name it may name itself, is a picture of our wondrous march towards the unattainable. 

Let it not be said that this poetical faculty in man requires rather to be checked than to be indulged, or that duty can best be performed where it is only moderately active. There are some isolated cases, in which imagination, unchecked, unregulated, becomes prejudicial, and conducts to a prostration of vigor and resolution. But such cases are few, and their very fewness makes them the more observed. 

One of the greatest defects in the majority of men is unquestionably the undevelopment of the poetical faculty. This is specially notable in this country. The English are remarkable for the weakness of the poetical faculty. It is a singular fact, that England, which has produced the greatest poets that the world has ever seen, is the least poetical of countries in the character of its inhabitants. The effect of this unpoetical character is, that the English, who have many noble qualities, have a less continued and a less elevated range of happiness than other nations in many respects far inferior. 

Everything here is done too much as a matter of business. Religion is mechanical; morality a catalogue of details, instead of a fortress of principles; social relations hard and angular; friendship a habit instead of a sympathy; conversation a petty gossip about the news of the day, instead of a discursive grasp of the most suggestive and instructive topics of human thought. And this is what renders the education of the English people so difficult. They are quick enough in apprehension, disposed enough to receive information; but then it is an apprehension that is exercised not manysidedly, but onesidedly. Religious people read only religious books, and political reformers read only political productions, and scientific investigators read only scientific treatises. So that if the country were not divided into hostile parties any measure for the common benefit from being passed, there would still exist the obstacle that I have mentioned—the miserable onesidedness in the popular search for knowledge, and which would seriously interfere with the operations of any extensive plan for harmonising the intelligence of the general mind. 

One of the first and most unceasing attempts of every true friend of the people, should therefore be, to show them that all truth is not embraced in religious or political truth; that even admitting the justice of every political dogma for which they contend, still every such dogma has but a limited connection with the boundless world of literature from which the main elements of their intellectual strength, and moral stability, and introspective wellbeing and fullness must be drawn; and that the pursuit of any object, however excellent in itself, becomes the absurdest of monomanias and the narrowest of sectarianisms, unless it has an excursive and electrical contact with numberless points of contemplation far remote from the immediate aim. 

The people would become to a considerable extent their own educators, if more of the poetical were thrown round the aspects of their life. They would see that they are not merely members of the commonwealth of England, but members of the commonwealth of enlightened and enlightening minds, to whom, in all periods of history, poetry has been a harmonizing principle. It is not mere change in its institutions that this country wants, though these have become obviously and imperatively necessary; it wants far more the culture of a humanizing spirit, which would refine the feelings, call forth the affections, purify and expand the reflective faculties, and which, ever aiming towards catholicity of sentiment, of perception, and of aspiring, would evolve the good from the husk of error and sin—would transmute antipathy into love, and evil into excellence—and would teach men to gaze, not on the changeable in each other, which they hate or despise, but on the unchangeable, which is the glory of their common nature, and which makes them one with their Father in heaven. 

Ministers of the Gospel might do much towards this; but they do not. They speak of the transcendant worth of the Christian religion, of the benevolence it inculcates, and of the doctrine of equality which it proclaims,—yet, in the same breath, they urge their flocks Judaisingly to shun the Samaritan touch of all beyond the pale of their sect; and while with the one hand they point to the bloodstained cross of Jesus, as a symbol of universality of human redemption, with the other they point to the mansions in the skies that are reserved for the aristocracy of the elect. 

Political agitators might also do much in this holy cause; but they do not. They address themselves to the inflamed passion and the insane prejudices of their adherents, instead of to their judgment, their convictions, their faith, of their kind and generous tendencies; they rouse the animal appetite for slaughter, not the calm determination to make every sacrifice for freedom: they speak of man’s right and of man’s might, and in this they do well; but they do not speak of man’s duties, or of man’s brotherhood, or of the reciprocities that should bind the human family together. 

What, consequently, ministers of the Gospel, and political agitators, and other popular teachers fail to do, poetry must do; fulfilling now, as it has more or less always fulfilled, the blissful mission of throwing a gorgeous drapery of idealism around humanity, and of connecting, by the most harmonious relations, the perfectibility of the individual with the perfectibility of the race.

In tracing, as best as we can, the early history of the world, from such instruments as are afforded us, it is evident that the Poet must have arisen as an Agent of Civilization immediately after the Hero. To tell the Hero’s deeds, in order that others might be roused to similar heroism for the sake of the fatherland, was an aspect of patriotism as natural as the heroism itself. It is only necessary to suppose this rude tradition clothed with the rudest artistic form, and we have before us—the birth of poetry. The great object of poetry, to idealise the actual, here attained its commencement, in the exaggerated expression of wonder and admiration at what was the grandest then known manifestation of human character. Narrative poetry must therefore have preceded every other species of poetry. From the narration of the Hero’s deeds, there was an easy transition to the appeals which urged to the performance of deeds as distinguished. These appeals would mingle in the inspired utterances of the Bard, either when, in time of peace, he was entertaining his listeners with a glowing description of what their forefathers had done, or when he cast his stirring voice into the roar of battle, to impel his countrymen to add a fresh wreath to the glory of their native land. And these appeals, strong and striking, however barbarous, were the beginnings of lyrical composition. 

We have only to conceive a further process, and we see this lyrical composition taking a wider range. We have to conceive the Poet giving still more intensity and earnestness to his warlike appeals, by allusions to the beauty and the fame of a country, which many a wellwon fight, and many a fascinating association, made dear—to its woods, its hills, its streams—to the fertility of its soil, and the abundance of its flocks—its varying aspects in the vicissitude of the seasons—the occupations of its inhabitants, their happiness, their domestic enjoyments;—and these incidental allusions would, afterwards, themselves become separate topics of lyrical poetry. 

Music would owe its origin to the first and most uncultivated form of lyrical poetry. The earliest warcry of earth’s primeval combatants, would be nothing more than a short rapid shout of encouragement. Afterwards, each tribe would be desirous, both from motives of pride and of convenience, of being distinguished by a warcry of its own. To bestow on it this distinction, they would be obliged to give it a peculiar sound—varying its tones in such a manner, as that it could not be confounded with that of the enemy. And such variation, however small—however abrupt in its transitions—was music; for the simplest idea of music is that of the attachment of a definite meaning to a consecutive series of sounds. 

It is unnecessary to follow the progress of poetry in the perfectionment of its narrative and lyrical forms—such as the epic, the dramatic, or the didactic. What I have stated, suffices to show the origin and the value of the Poet, as an Agent of Civilization. The work that the Poet has done, in times of refinement, is manifest to any one who has a moderate acquaintance with literature. What he has done, in the times of man’s first slow gropings after selfculture, is not so well known, and, therefore, has claimed more of my attention. 

I would willingly enlarge on the influence and mission of the Poet, in the most virtuous and interesting periods of Greek and Roman history; in the middle ages, when the Troubadours of France and the Minnesingers of Germany were the creators of all that was graceful, glorious, good, and generous in the nations of Europe; in subsequent centuries, when the German Minnesingers, with poetical talent far inferior to their predecessors, but with objects, aims, and instrumentalities far more widely and popularly useful, prepared the way for the Reformation; in the reign of Elizabeth, a period unequalled for dramatic genius and fertility; in the epoch made memorable by the French Revolution,—when a Scottish peasant fell, crushed, into the grave—the giant victim of a world unworthy of him—but left the renown of a lyrical Poet, unrivalled and inimitable. But such lengthened speculations would demand details equivalent to a history of poetry. 

There is a simple means, however, of proving to yourselves the value and extent of the Poet’s humanizing and idealizing power. Read your Bible; which, from first to last, is one long sublime poem: —read it with an earnest, believing spirit, and you will not be at a loss to discover the source, and the means, and the worth of the Poet’s influence on the Civilization of a nation or of a world.

DISCUSSION POINTS

• Maccall sums up the purpose of poetry by saying that “the great object of poetry, to idealise the actual.” What do you think he means by that?
• The author describes poetry as “an essential and unpausing vitality of every rational intelligence.” In your opinion, what is it that makes poetry so powerful and lively?
• Maccall likens the work of a poet to that of God. What is the parallel he draws between the two in this essay?
• There are many theories regarding the historical origins of music. The author brings music in close connection with poetry; explain how. 
• This essay is highly critical of religious dignitaries and professional politicians. What exactly are Maccall’s objections? 

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES

Maccall, William (entry in the Dictionary of National Biography)

William Maccall (Wikipedia entry with bibliography)

COVER IMAGE

“A Reading from Homer” also known as “Listening to Homer“. Oil painting by Laurence Alma-Tadema (1836–1912).

“If Sasha needs 10 minutes to saw through a wooden plank twice, how long does it take Sasha to saw the plank into 3 pieces (assume everything else stays the same)?”
#learnmath #mathskills

The purpose of a question like that is not to test your skill at calculating. Instead, it tests your reading abilities:
- can you grasp the language?
- did you fall for the trick question?
- do you understand how the trick works, so you can avoid falling for it next time?

#readingcomprehension matters.

‘The Way through the Woods’ by Rudyard Kipling

Not long ago, on one of my nature walks I visited a small lake near the town of Barajevo, Serbia. Oddly enough, the lake happens to be called Deep Stream (‘Duboki potok’ in Serbian); it’s in a rather secluded location, and so out of the way that even the locals had trouble explaining the directions to it.

Surrounded by rolling hills typical of the area between the mountains of Avala and Kosmaj, it felt very charming and peaceful. What I liked best, though, was the country lane encircling the lake, meandering through the forest. There was nothing special or unique about it, but it was just lovely.

Once I got back home, I searched my library for a poem that would go well with my mental images of the place. And here it is – the subject of this blog post – Rudyard Kipling’s ‘The Way through the Woods’. 

While set in summer rather than late winter, it describes a location not unlike the one I visited. But it’s a lot more than a mere description of a nature spot. The poet reflects on the passing character of all man-made structures: where once there was a road, nature has taken over again. What made the place so beautiful and idyllic is the withdrawal of humans and their absence.

I hope you enjoy this poem! The links inserted throughout are intended primarily for English language learners – you can click on them to see the images illustrating some of the words, mainly the plants and animals mentioned in the poem.

They shut the road through the woods
      Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
      And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
      Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
      And the thin anemones.
      Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
      And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
      Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
      Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
      Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
      And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
      Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
      As though they perfectly knew
      The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES

‘The Way through the Woods’ read by Ralph Fiennes

‘The Way through the Woods’ – a detailed poem analysis

@[email protected] Can you people get some #readingcomprehension please.

I never said anything about preventing #Tor users from accessing Mastodon. Not even logging-in to their account (so they can sign-up from a "clearnet" IP and then login via Tor afterwards, just like how it's done in #liberachat #IRC). All I'm saying is, if your instance has open registrations without any form of manual vetting or approval before activating the account, then you should prevent #Tor users from just being able to register an account in your instance so your instance isn't just an easy target for spammers to use.

And yes, block the #VPN users too from registering an account. That's what #Misskey's flagship instance at misskey.io already do to prevent non-Japanese users from creating an account there.

Read-only, not 403'ing everything. ​:seija_coffee:​

My favourite wintertime books

The temperature is dropping and it’s getting colder and colder outside. What better way to spend a quiet winter evening than with a nice, warm drink and a cosy yet thrilling read!

In this post I’ll share with you some of my favourite books with a dreamy wintertime setting. For the past few years we haven’t had much snow in my neck of the woods, but there’s plenty of it in these titles! And I think there’s something for everyone in my selection – both fiction and non-fiction. So, scroll down and find something for yourself.

(A brief note for my current students – you can borrow all of these titles from my in-house library.)

Without further ado, let’s get cracking!

Five Go Adventuring Again

MYSTERY / ADVENTURE / CHILDREN’S

On the odd chance you are not familiar with the Famous Five book series by Enid Blyton, have a look at my article written on the occasion of the 80th anniversary of the very first release. 

Five Go Adventuring Again is the second book in the series. Originally published in 1943, it’s written in a simple way typical of Blyton’s early works, which makes it suitable for English language learners – levels pre-intermediate (B1) and above. Set during Christmas holidays, the kids get themselves involved in a holiday adventure, as they discover secret passages, mysterious maps and deal with suspicious strangers.

Regardless of how old you may be, you’re never too old for a Famous Five book! You can check out the e-book, accessible via archive.org with a free account.

The Secret History

MURDER MYSTERY / DARK ACADEMIA / CAMPUS NOVEL

Donna Tartt’s first book, The Secret History, has been a best-seller for over thirty years. First published in 1992, it follows a group of students at a small, elite New England college. Budding classicists who are the main characters have complicated personal histories and relationships, and are all somehow connected with the disappearance and murder of a fellow student.

If you’re intrigued, a while ago I posted a review of this novel (I had only the best things to say), and you can read it by clicking here.

The Sittaford Mystery

MURDER MYSTERY / DETECTIVE STORY

If you’re into thrillers and murder mysteries of a more cosy variety, Agatha Christie’s novels featuring Miss Marple are just the ticket! 

The Sittaford Mystery is set in a small Dartmoor village in the middle of a very snowy winter. A group of people meets for a spiritualist seance at a residence of one of the prominent locals – but instead of table-turning, there’s a seemingly inexplicable murder!

If you like the book, check out the television adaptation of this story, part of the ITV’s Agatha Christie’s Marple series starring Geraldine McEwan. (If you can’t find it elsewhere, it’s currently available on YouTube, here and here.)

The Tenderness of Wolves

MURDER MYSTERY / DRAMA

I remember when I first read Stef Penney’s 2006 novel The Tenderness of Wolves, I loved every single thing about it! Penney’s writing style (extremely skillful for a debut novel!); the deep winter setting; small and remote rural places in Canada; the suspense… It was just breathtaking. You won’t be able to put it down!

The book is difficult to define in terms of genre, but it’s definitely much more than your typical murder mystery. I wish there was a film adaptation, but thus far there is only the BBC Radio 4 drama series originally broadcast in 2007. (Sadly, it doesn’t seem to be available on the BBC Sounds platform at the time of writing. Let me know if you manage to find it elsewhere!)

Peace Like a River

DRAMA

Leif Enger’s 2001 novel Peace Like a River is set in the early 1950s and follows the lives of the Land family from the small town of Roofing. Their initially calm existence gets disturbed by the actions of two local bullies, and from there things unintentionally go into a downward spiral for everyone. 

In spite of dealing with difficult subjects, the striking thing about this book is its gentleness and grace. There’s a lot of Biblical and Christian symbolism in it, starting with the title itself (a line from the hymn “It is well with my soul”). It’s very well written and simply heartwarming.

It’s been a while since I last read this book, and I can’t guarantee that it’s actually set in winter at all – but I always feel like reading it on a cold winter’s day. So think of it as an honourable mention here.

Wilderness Seasons

NON-FICTION / ADVENTURE / NATURE WRITING

The only non-fiction title in this selection is a delectable little book written by Ian and Sally Wilson. Its full title is Wilderness Seasons: Life and Adventure in Canada’s North. First published in 1987, it’s the Wilsons’ true account of their own personal adventure.

Having decided to leave the city, they moved to a remote homestead – hundreds of kilometres from the nearest settlement, and accessible only by a small plane. Wonderfully inspiring, the book describes the four seasons in their little piece of heaven (so not all of it is winter-themed).

I’ve always harboured similar fantasies, and reading this book was incredibly satisfying. I remember getting it at a book swapping event over a decade ago. And as a special treat, the book came with the authors’ signatures. I treasure it to this day.

Please post in the comments section below and share about your wintertime favourites. I’d love to read about them!

COVER IMAGE CREDITS

Photo by Paola Chaaya via Unsplash

NOTES

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

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#AmericanLiterature #books #Canada #CanadianLiterature #Christmas #EnglishLiterature #learningEnglish #reading #readingComprehension #readingSkills #recommendations #tips #winter

Long shot here. Could anyone point me to research showing that we *believe* we read better than we actually do?

(IE thinking that we are grasping the full meaning or context we aren't, perhaps between we read faster on screens and skim more.)

I’m sure I’ve read about this, but now I need a reference, it escapes me.

I don’t think Maryanne Wolf mentioned this specifically in “Reader, Come Home”.

Patricia Alexander found that students incorrectly judged their comprehension as better online than in print. But that’s not quite the same as thinking their overall reading comprehension is better than it is.

Any leads would be great, or if you feel like giving this a boost to help spread the net, I’d appreciate it.

#ReadingSkills #ReadingComprehension #OnlineReading #OnscreenReading

Long shot here. Could anyone point me to research showing that we *believe* we read better than we actually do?

(IE thinking that we are grasping the full meaning or context we aren't, perhaps between we read faster on screens and skim more.)

I’m sure I’ve read about this, but now I need a reference, it escapes me.

I don’t think Maryanne Wolf mentioned this specifically in “Reader, Come Home”.

Patricia Alexander found that students incorrectly judged their comprehension as better online than in print. But that’s not quite the same as thinking their overall reading comprehension is better than it is.

Any leads would be great, or if you feel like giving this a boost to help spread the net, I’d appreciate it.

#ReadingSkills #ReadingComprehension #OnlineReading #OnscreenReading

Long shot here. Could anyone point me to research showing that we *believe* we read better than we actually do?

(IE thinking that we are grasping the full meaning or context we aren't, perhaps between we read faster on screens and skim more.)

I’m sure I’ve read about this, but now I need a reference, it escapes me.

I don’t think Maryanne Wolf mentioned this specifically in “Reader, Come Home”.

Patricia Alexander found that students incorrectly judged their comprehension as better online than in print. But that’s not quite the same as thinking their overall reading comprehension is better than it is.

Any leads would be great, or if you feel like giving this a boost to help spread the net, I’d appreciate it.

#ReadingSkills #ReadingComprehension #OnlineReading #OnscreenReading

Long shot here. Could anyone point me to research showing that we *believe* we read better than we actually do?

(IE thinking that we are grasping the full meaning or context we aren't, perhaps between we read faster on screens and skim more.)

I’m sure I’ve read about this, but now I need a reference, it escapes me.

I don’t think Maryanne Wolf mentioned this specifically in “Reader, Come Home”.

Patricia Alexander found that students incorrectly judged their comprehension as better online than in print. But that’s not quite the same as thinking their overall reading comprehension is better than it is.

Any leads would be great, or if you feel like giving this a boost to help spread the net, I’d appreciate it.

#ReadingSkills #ReadingComprehension #OnlineReading #OnscreenReading

Long shot here. Could anyone point me to research showing that we *believe* we read better than we actually do?

(IE thinking that we are grasping the full meaning or context we aren't, perhaps between we read faster on screens and skim more.)

I’m sure I’ve read about this, but now I need a reference, it escapes me.

I don’t think Maryanne Wolf mentioned this specifically in “Reader, Come Home”.

Patricia Alexander found that students incorrectly judged their comprehension as better online than in print. But that’s not quite the same as thinking their overall reading comprehension is better than it is.

Any leads would be great, or if you feel like giving this a boost to help spread the net, I’d appreciate it.

#ReadingSkills #ReadingComprehension #OnlineReading #OnscreenReading

Good morning.

I’m sorry to announce #ReadingComprehension and #NewsLiteracy are dead.

#Journalists, you can go home now.

A poem for the New Year: “Ring Out, Wild Bells” by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Last time we had a poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson here on the blog, it was his lovely short piece “The Owl”. In this post I’d like to present “Ring Out, Wild Bells”: it’s a classic New Year’s Eve poem, filled with good wishes and hopeful pleas. First published in 1850, it addresses everything from wishes for good health to the rule of justice and the end of wars—things we can all wish for over century and a half later.

The poem consists of eight stanzas of four lines each. If you read the poem aloud (which I always encourage), you’ll soon notice the ABBA rhyming pattern. You’ll also notice a steady and consistent rhythm: each line contains about eight syllables metrically organised into iambs, i.e. the poem has an iambic metre. 

If I’ve lost you with this last bit, let me explain: an iamb is one of many metrical units used in poetry since the times of ancient Greece. Each iamb consists of two syllables: the first one is unstressed and/or short, while the second one is stressed and often long(er). When you read the lines of the poem below, you’ll easily be able to make out these syllables: try reading them out in this rhythm.

Two more technical words I’d like to introduce here are scansion and its corresponding verb to scan. When you scan a poem, you analyse its metrical pattern, so you’d actually know how to properly read it out. It was a huge deal in the poetry of classical Greece and Rome, as all poetry was recited in its metre. That’s very different from how contemporary, free-verse poetry is written and read out, which is pretty much like prose.

I know I’ve bored you enough, so let’s move on to Tennyson! As always in my poetry posts, there’s a vocabulary exercise for English language learners below the poem, don’t miss it.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light:The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.Ring out the grief that saps the mindFor those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.Ring out the want, the care, the sin,The faithless coldness of the times;Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymesBut ring the fuller minstrel in.Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.Ring out old shapes of foul disease;Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.

VOCABULARY EXERCISE

Match the following words from the poem with the corresponding synonyms or definitions:

• frosty (adjective, stanza 1)
• sap (verb, stanza 3)
• feud (noun, stanza 3)
• redress (noun, stanza 3)
• strife (noun, stanza 4)
• mournful (adjective, stanza 5)
• minstrel (noun, stanza 5)
• slander (noun, stanza 6)
• spite (noun, stanza 6)
• foul (adjective, stanza 7)
• valiant (adjective, stanza 8)

1. sad, sorrowful, gloomy
2. bold and brave
3. a false and damaging statement about someone
4. a prolonged and bitter quarrel
5. a conflict, an angry disagreement
6. a desire to hurt or offend someone
7. a mediaeval singer or musician
8. disgusting; evil; immoral
9. compensation for a wrong
10. to gradually weaken, exhaust the energy of something
11. very cold

To check your answers, click here for the answer key.

NOTE

I’m a freelance language tutor (English, Latin, Classical Greek), researcher, and a literary scholar currently based in Belgrade, Serbia.  

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