Ohh That Milton & Writing Sentences as Punishment

I left off in the last post asking who the heck was Milton and I start this one with the imagined sting of Mrs. Johnson’s ruler. You see I’ve always been a daydreamer and Mrs. Johnson was a nightmare.

I’m sure we have all had one or two (or fifteen) teachers who fed on tender brains we didn’t absolutely love. And who left us with more questions than answers such as:
Does writing sentences as a punishment really improve academic outcomes? To that I answer, NO Mrs. Johnson. No it does not. Writing I’m sorry I daydreamed through Paradise Lost did not improve my retention.

Is John Milton still relevant today? I say sure he is and I would go so far as to recommend we all take the time to study him again. Minus the rulers and redundant sentences.

And lastly, How do literature teachers live to be one thousand years old?ugly old woman Because they are brain eating zombies! I don’t have a clue.

We’re not going to delve into Paradise Lost but you can get a free e-pub download from Gutenberg and read it at your leisure. Or try the online searchable version with modernized spelling.

Since May is less than a week away I chose this one. Don’t critique the spelling – all I did was copy and paste. Hey I did learn something from writing sentences as punishment.

Song On May Morning

by John Milton

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcom thee, and wish thee long.

 

 

The End of National Poetry Month (For Now)

April 30th is the last day of National Poetry Month and a fitting time to share Sara Teasdale’s I love You wouldn’t you agree? Sara Teasdale is said to be the first to receive the Pulitzer Prize Award for Poetry. She is known for her simplicity and (like too many others) her self-inflicted demise.

I Love You

by Sara Teasdale

When April bends above me

And finds me fast asleep,

Dust need not keep the secret

A live heart died to keep.

~

When April tells the thrushes,

The meadow-larks will know,

And pipe the three words lightly

To all the winds that blow.

~

Above his roof the swallows,

In notes like far-blown rain,

Will tell the little sparrow

Beside his window-pane.

~

O sparrow, little sparrow,

When I am fast asleep,

Then tell my love the secret

That I have died to keep.