The Meeting Of Spring And Winter

The story of Summer, by David Updike, is set during that idyllic time in life when responsibility is the last word on anyone's mind. And yet, as with all human affairs, responsibility is an ever-present and ever-necessary aspect to life. What happens when the protagonist, Homer, loses his awareness of a certain personal responsibility to maintain self-control? Homer's actions increasingly make him act foolishly, internally and externally. Also, how does Homer return to a sense of sanity and responsibility? To a degree, I would say that he does.

As Mrs. Mallard is up in her room, she sits in her comfortable armchair, exhausted and motionless. She could see out of her window in which everything around her is in bloom, spring has arrived. “She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all

I am going to perform Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden. in this poem Hayden explains how hard a speaker’s father worked. The term “blue-black cold” depicts the very early cold morning when the sky is between black and blue. It illustrates how early the father wakes up. He wakes up before sunrise which really had with a person who is tired to do that. Although it was difficult for him to wake up this early, he does it anyway to provide for his family. He doesn’t get enough sleep, but he is such a hard worker that the reader is able to grasp his hard work with the description “cracked hands that ached.” His cracked hands that ached further highlights his sacrifice. The word “ached” shows us a strong meaning for hard work. It shows that

When one thinks of a ballet they hear soft rhythmic notes and see elegantly dancing ballerinas softly tip-toeing around the stage. This is also what people in early 1900’s expected to see when they planned to attend a ballet. However, a couple of motivated artists in 1913 literally planned to change the design of ballet, music and dance forever. On May 29, 1913 a ballet named The Rite of Spring premiered in Paris, France. The original title as it translates from Russian to French is; Le Sacre du Printemps, meaning the rite of spring, but the literal translation from Russian to English means “Sacred Spring”. The ballet and music were composed by Igor Stravinsky, with the help of Nicholas Roerich, who proposed the general idea behind the

This poem brought me back to my home town and the wonders and beauty that it brings around winter time, and made me nostalgic with memories of past winters with my family and slightly saddened for those who have never seen the magical ability snow has. This poem reminded me that there are people who live in states where their change in seasons is not as noticeable, as the ones that I grew up with and have come to miss. Similar to many of the romantics, natures true beauty can transform the mundane into a work of art that would never have existed

I lay awake on a freezing night; As cold as an arctic snowstorm, and as dark as a planet with no sun. My eyes were open as wide as a deer's in front of a moving vehicle. There was one thought in my mind, one thought only, the love of my life. Her long silky hair, her smooth, tanned skin, her pristine beauty and her effervescent, godlike personality were all I ever desired; she was as sweet as a honeycomb and as unique as a sparkling snowflake in a vast blizzard. Absolutely immaculate, absolutely flawless was our relationship; or so I thought. There was only one problem, one only; it seemed as though no matter how hard I endeavoured to fulfil her desires, I just couldn't. For I had endured thousands of long

The night air was heavy with silence. Clouds drifted across a calm sky, and a full moon shone in the distance. In a small hut on the outskirts of the valley, an old man lay in bed, awake in the peaceful slumber of the village. His breaths came in rattling gasps, his forehead burned, and his joints felt stiff with pain. He shifted on the blankets, his withered hands clenched in fists as he tried to suppress the wave of bitter memories coming to him. His life had been nothing more than work, loss, tragedy. He remembered all of his hope, his ambition, in his youth, and he smiled bitterly. No one would remember him as the man that he had once hoped he would become. Now, as his breathing became heavier and he felt himself fading on the brink of

I made my way to my aunt’s house. Her home smelled of fresh cut pine, and she offered me a cup of coffee with a cinnamon stick in it. I accepted, and we went to the kitchen table and discussed our week. As she talked, I looked out her kitchen table. A small oak grew in the front yard. Snow capped the birdfeeder beside her bird bath.

He waited until the night’s 11th hour. By now the Princess rested in the highest tower of the castle, locked away from the dangerous world, yet so oblivious to the dangers that which fated the rest of her life. Silently the peasant journeyed outside, where he stopped at the wall of the tower where she lay. He watched her in the darkness from below, lifting his face to her, letting the light rest on his every surface of darkness. The night was cloudless. The winds wailed between the motionless oak trees as its thin branches clawed out, ever so slightly disturbing the leaves with its hostile screeches. Not the thick moss of the trees nor the damp leaves squirming in his toes could distract the peasant from so enticing a scent. All that encircled him was the sweetness of lavender and rosewood, filling his entire being as he sunk into the grass, like sand washed over by the water, with every breeze passing

After Hitler refused to stop the invasion of Poland, Britain and France declared war on Germany. This was the beginning of World War 2, and the United States would shortly join to fight the Axis Powers. In July, 1944 there was an assassination attempt on Adolph Hitler (Page 3). This was the start of the book called The Longest Winter by Alex Kershaw. The Longest Winter, Lieutenant Bouck leads his platoon in the Battle of the Bulge and also through prisoners of war camps in Germany. Kershaw is able to talk about the platoon specifically and describe their struggle through the POW camps. In this book, Alex Kershaw focuses on mainly on the platoon of the 394th Infantry Regiment, 99th Infantry division. The Longest Winter is a book that tells

“She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with new spring life.” Speaks of hopefulness and rebirth

A single beam of light shone thru the curtain. The specs of dust in the room danced between the rays, whisked into the air by the pleasant breeze tip toeing thru the screen door. I could feel the warmth on my cheek as I rose from the sheets, thoroughly rested. I briskly got ready, slipping on my tennis shoes, old and worn. Stepping outside, I was greeted by the painfully sweet aroma of sweet pea flowers, entranced by the blissful gleams of sunlight, and spellbound by the familiar screeching of parrots, flocking in clouds of bright vermilion.

The air was crisp and clean, as it was a mild autumn day. Throughout the forest, the sounds of nature could be heard. Birds chirping, leaves falling off trees in the midday breeze. The calm sounds of the woods gave way to a new sound: the gentle humming of a young female wanderer, on a quest to visit her grandmother. She quite enjoyed the sounds and view of the forest, as it was her favorite thing to surround herself with as she was growing up in the village not far from the forest edge. As she strolled through the winding paths of the forest road, she thought of the wonderful experiences of the day ahead with her grandmother.

Though she is weak, she struggles. I whisper soothing words to her as I carry her through the woods; if only she could understand that no harm will come to her by my hand. When she goes still, my heart twists in my chest. She has not left this world, I realize, but is staring at me with an intensity that makes the heat of fire seem dull. This is the first day that I have ever held a life in my arms, and it shakes me. Her soul is laid bare before my eyes, and I wish to shelter it from the snowfall. She does not see this, and though my words may be futile, they carry weight.

The great comparison, somewhat of a conceit, only serves to show the complete infatuation of young love. The girl warms the boy, brightens his day, and thus she is his sun. But the contrast between the bleary winter day and the light the girl represents serves as commentary of how love lights up our bleak world. Young love is what transforms this poem from a mere retelling of a winter day to a retelling of a fond memory of a girl. Love is what brightens the world, what transforms it from a cold and lonely winter day into a beautiful story, and the innocence of young love opens ones eyes to the innocence of love in the face of the cruelty of the world. Love is an infatuation, a prize, an experience, and it keeps us warm even on the coldest of days. Love warms us in the way a winter jacket could not, and it makes us feel as if we have a fire, not in our hands like the speaker, but in our