Analysis Of Winter 's Frost, The Palm Tree

“The gentle green hills which on either hand enclosed the village, tufted here and there with magnificent trees, the village itself, straggling and wide, each cottage being far apart from its neighbors and each ornamented with flower beds and shrubberies; these with a lovely stream which would through the valley, formed, as far as my memory may be trusted, one of the most exquisite panoramas, on which it has ever been my good fortune to

Deep in the Alps lies a small town called Clay. The sun was rising over a frosty blue mountain, and drops of dew dripped down from the leaves in the valley. Arthur awoke to find his bedroom filled with light. He went downstairs and drank a glass of water, not hungry enough for food. Arthur went outside into the chilly morning and started walking down the road. The road was lined with hundreds of huge alpine trees. A large flock of birds flew over Arthur’s head in the sky.

Already in the beginning, miles of farmland wedge between John and Ann as he ventures off to “help [his father] with his chores, while “mak[ing] sure he’s all right in case [they] do have a storm.” Without her husband for company, she spends the day alone at home, painting, “brooding” and witnessing the intensity of the storm grow vicious. As “the double wheel around the moon” foreshadowed, the storm tested the “elements of human meaning and survival,” forcing the wise to stay indoors away from its “sharp, savage blows.” Also, the desolate prairies, themselves, add to the tense, stultifying aura of solidarity. While the landscape lay bleak and uninviting, how even “the distant farmsteads [Ann] could see served only to intensify a sense of isolation” appears clear. Not only “miles deep between her now and John,” Ann faces a natural barrier between the neighbouring homesteads as the “long white miles of prairie landscape” conceived a “region strangely alien to life.” In essence, the physical barriers, from the “sudden, maniac raging of the storm” to the vast stretches of farmland, allows loneliness and the “ever-lurking silence” to creep into the characters’ hearts until suffering takes control of their

I walked to the room at the end of the hall that led to the attic. I slowly placed my foot on the first step, calling out for Nancy. When I finally reached the top, I saw a long haired woman standing by the window with her backed turned to me. "Chelsea? What the hell are you doing here?" She was holding an axe in her hand and I started backing up, with no intention on going any further. She turned around and to my surprise, it was not Chelsea at all, but Nancy. She had blood rolling down her forehead, from the scalp that was ripped from Chelsea's head. "Oh, Dear," she said. "You gave me quite a fright." She started walked toward me. "What do you think?" She asked, running her fingers through the

The night before had brought a starless night with rain, but daybreak cracked through on a promising Saturday morning. The sky awoke with clouds dissipating. Hues of indigo beckoned the light between the black sky and the blue. Fog clung to the rolling hills while the varnished sun lit up the fields. In the distance, a faint sound rumbled over the quiet wisps still hanging in the air.

It brimmed with morning air outside the Crufty family home. The Magpies were squawking on the broken power line, and winds of autumn made the grass flutter. The clouds kept the Sun rays hidden from sight, but left them a dim

It was nine o'clock on a rainy September night. The moon was out, only slightly covered by translucent clouds. No stars seemed to be visible from the view. It was strange, considering the house they live in is not even a mile from a forest, where they usually camped out on to see the beautiful night sky and fireflies during the summer. The old, wooden door squeaked as Clare went outside. The Greenwood's house was very old, seeing as it was built over a century ago.

A whirring sound came from overhead, encompassing the city, shrouding it in fear and apprehension. Grunts and groans, slurred and incomprehensible, emanated from piles of rubbish that littered the roads like mountains of devastation. Buildings, grey, dull and lifeless, lay still. A subtle wind caressed their faces, the breeze’s chorus a tune of sadness, whistling through the empty roads and alleyways. A faint rustle was lost in the dismal song, heartbroken and forlorn. Hidden in a dark, overshadowed alleyway, the wistful mountains shifted, groggily waking. Wrappers and squashed cans made way for a bright little face, silent and afraid in the heap.

Once we reached the bottom, we collapsed in a sun-drenched meadow. Delicate, white, pink, and purple wildflowers were intertwined between ripping blades of grass. The blossoms though tiny infused the air with a warm fragrance that—for me—evoked summers of fresh picked strawberries and hay turning yellow beneath the sun. In the distance, I saw a stand of dark pine trees, and beyond them, a languid brook trickled softly on a bed of pebbles into a sliver lake. The field was surrounded by blue hills and Shadow

I wake up and think I am in our old house in the countryside. The sun is streaming through the window from rolling, green hills outside, and I can smell my mother’s cooking wafting through the house. Soon the day will begin, a long day, of weaving cloth.

The subtle sound of the stream soothed his lost thoughts. His ears were engulfed by the fresh grass being crunched between his tired, beaten feet. He stood there, motionless, intimidated by the colossal, stone giants resting before him. He was surrounded by them; enclosed by their antiquated bonds of rock. Their bodies were clothed only by dense sheets of overgrown moss, peppered by bare clumps of pebbles and boulders. The dormant mountains continued to throw an unfocused gaze over him. Their presence disturbed him but at the same time provided him with a somewhat twisted sense of security. Scattered over the surface of the mountains were trees with youthful, esteemed trunks reinforced by cinnamon barks peering down the valley. A delicate wind

Around a bend, and out of the blue, there came a town. Even so far from the nearest city, the town was butsling. Main Street was lined with colorful buildings restored from the Victorian era. A two floor hotel, elegant even in it’s old age, announced its presence at the corner of an intersection. The stout brick walls stood fortified, defying the valley winds. The occasional house could be seen through the tightly packed boutiques, shops, and art galleries. One was baby blue and white, another, the color of dried saffron. Further on down Main Street, natural hot springs revealed themselves. People of every age packed into the heated pools. A vicious game of volleyball had commenced, and more people were flocking to the net even in the second it took to drive past. Eventually, the quaint Main Street ended, and the highway led the car through several switchbacks that twisted up the side of the valley. At the top, a weather worn sign named the town “Ouray”, and the sight below was one to behold. Ouray spread through the bowl formed when rivers and mountains collide, spreading to the edges until not a shed more could’ve been built. But the highway kept leading, and the car kept

A dull noise pounded in Anne’s head, pulling her out of he sleep. She reached for the alarm and noticed it was way too early to be going off. Fully awake, she realized the disturbance was coming from the hallway. Annoyed, she threw on her robe and went to the front door, now she could hear voices. She opened the door, poked her head out and saw two large men holding up a sofa.

The speaker of 'Frost at Midnight' displays a characteristic reverence for nature – possibly the essential concern of Romanticism. In pious tones, he describes the "far other scenes" where his son will pass his boyhood "By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags/ Of ancient mountain" (lines 55-56). But it is not simply by the use of such grandiose language describing the topography of nature that nature is represented in the poem. By recalling his own

Arriving into my mom’s village was like entering a whole new world. Majestic green mountains towered rather than steel structures, the unpolluted air refreshed my lungs, and the open land freed me from the crammed city streets that I was accustom