Longfellow poems (printable PDF)

The Arrow and the Song

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

The Arsenal at Springfield

This is the Arsenal.  From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But front their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:
The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”
Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War’s great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.

The Children’s Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

The Day is Done

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

The Fire of Driftwood
Devereux Farm, near Marblehead

We sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o’er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,
An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,
The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night,
Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight,
Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene,
Of what we once had thought and said,
Of what had been, and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead;

And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart,
That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,
Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake
Had something strange, I could but mark;
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
The flames would leap and then expire.

And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames,
The ocean, roaring up the beach,
The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
All mingled vaguely in our speech;

Until they made themselves a part
Of fancies floating through the brain,
The long-lost ventures of the heart,
That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
They were indeed too much akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned,
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

The Landlord’s Tale (Paul Revere’s Ride)

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, --
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade, --
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, --
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled, --
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm, --
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

My Lost Youth

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thunder’d o’er the tide!
And the dead sea-captains, as they lay
In their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighbourhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

And Deering’s woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

Nature

As a fond mother, when the day is o’er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

There Was a Little Girl

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad she was horrid.

The Witnesses

In Ocean’s wide domains,
Half buried in the sands,
Lie skeletons in chains,
With shackled feet and hands.
Beyond the fall of dews,
Deeper than plummet lies,
Float ships, with all their crews,
No more to sink nor rise.
There the black Slave-ship swims,
Freighted with human forms,
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs
Are not the sport of storms.
These are the bones of Slaves;
They gleam from the abyss;
They cry, from yawning waves,
“We are the Witnesses!”
Within Earth’s wide domains
Are markets for men’s lives;
Their necks are galled with chains,
Their wrists are cramped with gyves.
Dead bodies, that the kite
In deserts makes its prey;
Murders, that with affright
Scare school-boys from their play!
All evil thoughts and deeds;
Anger, and lust, and pride;
The foulest, rankest weeds,
That choke Life’s groaning tide!
These are the woes of Slaves;
They glare from the abyss;
They cry, from unknown graves,
“We are the Witnesses!”

The Wreck of the Hesperus

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughtr,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailr,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
“I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.

“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!”
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.

“Come hither! come hither! my little daughtԨҨr,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow.”

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.

“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say, what may it be?”
“‘T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!” --
And he steered for the open sea.

“O father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh say, what may it be?”
“Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!”

“O father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh say, what may it be?”
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That savd she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

Embedding quotations in a paragraph
  Writing a well-developed paragraph

Online

Handout: How to incorporate quotations (PDF)
Example: How to incorporate a quote into a paragraph

Steps to getting an A on this paragraph

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 11/09 at 08:26 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

Incorporating quotations into a paragraph
  punctuation

Quote a short passage of that states the point you are agreeing or disagreeing with.

Your paragraph should follow this format:

[Sentence 1: topic sentence] Thoreau praises living close to nature, but he doesn’t go far as to camp out in nature. [Sentence 2: Lead-in to the quote] He writes about building his house, and the fact that it protected him from the elements. [Sentence 3: A sentence that includes the quote] “I began to occupy my house on the 4th of July,” he says, “as soon as it was boarded and roofed, for the boards were carefully feather-edged and lapped, so that it was perfectly impervious to rain . . . .” [Sentence 4: Tell why you include this quote] As you can see, he was careful in the way he constructed his house, and he did wish to be protected from the elements when necessary. [Sentence 5: Expand on your point by adding more information to strengthen the support] It is also interesting that he did not actually move to the woods until this house was ready for him to live in. [Sentence 6: Reminder of how this relates to your main idea] So it is apparent that while he loved nature, he wasn’t willing to live in a cave, or even a tent.

Notes about including quotations:

1. As you think about integrating quotations, keep looking for ways to be more concise and lively:

First Draft: In The Prince Machiavelli states that the general requirement of a prince is to “endeavor to avoid those things which would make him the object of hatred and contempt.”

Revision: In The Prince Machiavelli states that a prince should “endeavor to avoid those things which would make him the object of hatred and contempt.”

2. Make sure your quotations fit grammatically into the paragraph. They can’t simply be stuck in anywhere. Like any other elements of writing, quotations must be incorporated so that the sentence as a whole makes grammatical sense. For example, a quotations that’s an independent clause must not be spliced onto another independent clause:

First Draft: Hawking is at heart a scientist, “I think there is a universe out there waiting to be investigated and understood.”

Revision: Hawking is at heart a scientist: “I think there is a universe out there waiting to be investigated and understood.”

3. Useful words for introducting a quotation:

suggests
implies
testifies to
indicates
argues (that, for)
shows
demonstrates
supports
underscores

4. It’s important to explain what it is about the quote that you want the reader to notice. What’s your point? The revision does a much better job of helping the reader make sense of the quotation and how it helps the writer’s arugment:

First Draft: Iago says to Othello, “Who steals my purse steals trash; . . . / . . . / But he that filches from me my good name / Robs me of that which not enriches him / And makes me poor indeed” (3.3.157-61).

Revision: Drawing Othello further into his web, Iago suggests that public embarrassment would be intolerable: “Who steals my purse steals trash; . . . / . . . / But he that filches from me my good name / Robs me of that which not enriches him / And makes me poor indeed” (3.3.157-61). Iago, of course, is utterly contradicting his earlier declamation to Cassio on the folly of reputation (2.3.256-61).

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 11/09 at 08:20 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page
Grammar and Usage Guides •

Note to fellow writers
  Be sure to revise your essays carefully!

There’s an old saying among writers: “There’s no such thing as good writing. Only good-rewriting.”

Ernest Hemingway once confided to George Plimpton during an interview that he rewrote the ending to A Farewell to Arms 39 times before he was satisfied. Why so many rewrites? Plimpton asked.

Because, Hemingway responded, he wanted to get the words right.

Please work on revising your essays before I grade them. Start with your ideas. Can you state your main point in a single, clear sentence? If not, you haven’t brought your thoughts into focus yet, and if you’re thoughts aren’t focused it’s inevitably that your essay will wander around with no clear sense of what it’s trying to accomplish.

Is each paragraph really a paragraph, organized around one idea which is stated in a clear topic sentence?

Have you cut out unnecessary padding, so each sentence is sharp and lean and clear?

Have you proofread, to make sure that every sentence really is a sentence, and that your paragraphs are smooth with a rhythm that’s easy to follow?

Have you spell checked?

Here’s the checklist I will use to grade your essay:

Proofreading Checklist

Ideas and organization

• Somewhere in the first paragraph, I state my thesis in a simple, direct sentence.
• My thesis expresses an opinion rather than summarizes the story or states something that is simply factually true.
• The body of my essay consists of three or four reasons that “prove” my thesis or examples that support it.
• Every paragraph has a topic sentence which states the main idea of that paragraph.
• Everything in the paragraph relates to that topic sentence.
• The points are organized in a way that a reader can easily follow the argument.

Style

• Every sentence is clear and graceful.
• Most sentences have active verbs rather than “being” verbs, such as “is,” “was,” “were,” “are,” etc.
• My nouns are specific rather than vague or abstract. (“tree” is vague; “willow” is specific֓trouble” is abstract; the death of her daughter is specific)

Conventions and Usage

• Every word is spelled correctly.
• Every sentence is complete (no fragments).
• I have no fused sentences or comma splices. I’ve changed run-on sentences with too many jumbled together ideas into simpler sentences.
• Possessive nouns have apostrophes. Conjunctions have apostrophes.
• Proper nouns are capitalized, and every sentence begins with a capital.

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/27 at 11:59 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page
Class Logistics •

PHS Photo Gallery
  From the OurSpace Gallery
Find more photos like this on OurSpace

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/25 at 12:41 AM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

Introduction to Poetry
  Meter, Rhyme and Eloquence

Handouts:

The basics of poetry meter, with model poems

Poetry Meter Handout

Writing Your Own Poem

“Where I’m From”
Assignment: Write a “where I’m from” poem

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/23 at 03:08 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

Photo Club Surveys
  People in photography club: take these surveys!

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/16 at 04:38 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

Photography Club Membership
  2008-09

*Sierra Pete (883-0576) Brower (676-3365)
*Jordan Gochis (883-4224 or 261-6283)
*Mary Wiedrich (883-5398)
*Jake Walsh (270-3308)
*Melissa Cisneros (871-1566)
*Amanda Berens (270-3562)
*Chastity Biggers (212-7512)
*Sierra Kohler (887-2869)
*Sydney Plant (887-2874)
*Jazmin Auld (849-5734)
*Katie O’Brien (471-6537)

Ceylon Brown
Kate Finley (883-3286)
Josie Benedetti (880-0721)
Amanda Umphress (883-0010)
Danielle Kinyon (471-2125)
Mycal Bailey (471-1799)
Aspen Many Hides (207-9701)
Alexa Cline (229-0211)
Rebecca Costilla (253-9745)
Veda Mathias (849-5699)
Mariah Hamel (250-2596)
Josie Benedetti
Jenni Reilley (253-9630)
Laura Brandeis (887-2733)

Later:
Caitlin Mahoney

Officers
President
Vice President
Secretary
Treasurer
Exhibitions Director

Interests

Classes 16
Guest Speakers 9
Studio work 20
Shows/Exhibits 20
Field Trips 20
Community Service 14
Sharing 18
Photoshop 13
Fund Raising 18
Staged 1

Nature 16
Journalism 11
People/Portraits 17
Art 18
High School 11
Family 7
Black&White 1

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/06 at 09:48 AM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page
Class Logistics •

Did you join the Photography Club?
  Two web sites for the Club Melissa has create a MySpace Group for Photography Club. We can use it to upload photos for sharing and for general discussion & networking. It's here: http://groups.myspace.com/phsphotoclub

We will also use a Google Group for email messages and to organize basic materials (notices of events, minutes of meeting, membership list, announcements, etc.). Use the form below to join:

Subscribe to PHS_photo

Email:

Visit this group

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/05 at 06:29 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page
Extra Credit •

Moodle Link
  You can't get there from here

Here’s a link to the moodle site: http://www.umphrey.net/classes/

Several people have told me the drop-down menu at the top of this page doesn’t work on their home computer.

It would help me if people would check it, and if it doesn’t work, send me an email telling me which browser they are using. (To find out which browser you are using, go to the HELP menu, then click ABOUT. . .

To email me, use this link: http://www.flatheadreservation.org/index.php/main/contact_mlu

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/01 at 11:55 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

The Crucible
  A study of truth and justice

By the time we finish studying this play, you will be expected to turn in the following materials:

A. A completed study guide for the entire play: crucible-study_guide.pdf
B. A “conflicts” graphic organizer for Act One: Crucible-act1-conflict.pdf
C. A “changing status” graphic organizer for Act Two: Crucible-act2-status_changes.pdf
D. A “motivation” chart for Act Three: Crucible-act3-character.pdf
E. An “action/explanation” chart for Act FourCrucible-act4-character.pdf

In addition, you will need to write a 500-word essay about the play. Your essay should answer one of these questions:

1. How does Proctor’s major dilemma change in the course of the play?
2. How does Reverend Hale change during the play?
3. Compare or contrast the role of Abigail Williams with that of Elizabeth Proctor.
4. Which three characters are most to blame for the injustice that takes place in Salem?
5. Discuss Elizabeth as a symbol of truth.

In addition to the essay itself, you will need to turn in:

A. A completed “plot to theme” worksheet: http://www.flatheadreservation.org/images/phs/From_Plot_to_Theme-story_analysis.pdf
Here’s a sample worksheet that I filled out: http://www.flatheadreservation.org/images/phs/Notes_and_analysis_of_Crucible-truth_and_lies.pdf
B. A thesis/outline worksheet: http://www.flatheadreservation.org/images/phs/thesis-worksheet.pdf

List of Characters

Crucible-act4-status_changes.pdf
Crucible-act4-character.pdf
Crucible-act3-status.pdf

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 10/01 at 10:58 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

PHS
  Photography Club

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 09/30 at 11:12 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

PHS
  Photography Club

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 09/30 at 06:15 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

Makeup Procedure
  What to do after an excused absence

Makeup Sheet

NAME____________________________________Dates Absent_________________________

Things that need to be made up:

______________________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________

Date Makeup Completed and Turned In__________________________

The makeup is

☐ Attached to this sheet

☐ Turned in online. Specify which website (Moodle, etc.)________________________

☐ Other – Specify___________________________

Guideliness:

Unexcsed absences, no makeup is allowed.

For excused absences, you have one day for each day you were absent to get makeup done. It is your responsibility to find out what you missed, either by checking the website or asking a classmate.

Normally, class time will not be available for makeup. You need to make arrangements to do it before school or after school. Makeup for classes takes priority over extra-curricular practice.

Makeup that is turned in late will be graded down 10% each day.

When you return from being absent, you should immediately

(1) Get a makeup sheet from the out basket at the front of the room
(2) Find out what you missed, either by checking the website or with a classmate. Write down on the makeup sheet what is do be done.
(3) Make arrangements to come in after school to make up tests, watch videos, or do other work that cannot be done at home. Write down on the makeup sheet the time when you will do the makeup
(4) When the makeup is finished, put the date the work was completed on the “Makeup Sheet”, staple to it anytthing that needs to be handed in, and put it in the “makeup” outfile. These will be used to update Powerschool.

Printable Copy of Makeup Sheet (PDF)

Posted by Michael L Umphrey on 09/29 at 10:01 PM
Permalink • Printer-Friendly • E-mail this page

 1 2 3 >  Last »

Writers' Studio
PHS Online (Moodle)
OurSpace (Ning)
PHS Flickr
Photography Club (Google)
Photography Club (MySpace)
Find more photos like this on OurSpace

Today's Assignments

Advanced English 11:

Fri, Nov 21
Assignment: Eng11: Frederick Douglass 3 TEST

TEST: pages XXIII-31
Reading homework: Chapter IV-V: 32-39
Extra Credit: Douglass discussion on OurSpace Forum

English 11:

Fri, Nov 21
Assignment: Eng11: Frederick Douglass 3 TEST

TEST: pages XXIII-31
Reading homework: Chapter IV-V: 32-39
Extra Credit: Douglass discussion on OurSpace Forum

English 11 Cohort:

Montana Literature:

Table of Contents

(all posts, sorted by category}

Search

Advanced Search

Category Menu

• Class Logistics
• Forms
• Extra Credit
• Grammar and Usage Guides
• Classes
  • American Literature
    • Announcements
    • Handouts
    • Readings
      • Before 1800
      • Romanticism
      • Realism
      • Modernism
      • Contemporary
      • Local Studies
  • Composition
    • Announcements
    • Handouts
    • Online Text
    • Readings
  • Speech and Media Arts
    • Announcements
    • Handouts
    • Media Studies
      • Advertising videos
    • Readings
• Photography Club

Members:
Login | Register

Most recent entries

• Resources and Handouts
• American Romanticism
• Embedding quotations in a paragraph
• Incorporating quotations into a paragraph
• Note to fellow writers
• PHS Photo Gallery
• Introduction to Poetry
• Photo Club Surveys
• Photography Club Membership
• Did you join the Photography Club?
• Moodle Link
• The Crucible
• PHS
• PHS
• Makeup Procedure

Archives

• Complete Archives
• November 2008
• October 2008
• September 2008
• August 2008
• June 2008
• May 2008
• April 2008
• March 2008
• February 2008
• January 2008
• December 2007
• November 2007
• October 2007
• September 2007
• August 2007
• June 2007
• May 2007
• April 2007
• March 2007
• February 2007
• January 2007
• December 2006
• November 2006
• October 2006
• September 2006

RSS Feeds

• Distance Learning
• RSS 2.0
• Atom