question:how should i quickly memorize these poems for my test? Dover Beach BY MATTHEW ARNOLD The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. Eternity William Blake - 1757-1827 He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy He who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sunrise Resilience BY KIMIKO HAHN A single drop of rain can weigh fifty times as much as a mosquito and yet the insect flies through a downpour without injury. Rather than resist the impact, they "go with the flow"— like a boyfriend who trained in aikido— and when there's a direct hit the long wings and legs act "like a kite with a lengthy tail" so the insect can pull through the globule before it splats on the ground. Moreover, when such resilience is used as a model for robots we learn: "If you make it very, very small, you basically don't have to do anything else to make it survive." A tough exoskeleton helps. Also a happy-go-lucky heart even though his mother was strangled when he was seven. Yet Do I Marvel BY COUNTEE CULLEN I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair. Inscrutable His ways are, and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand. Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing! The Flea BY JOHN DONNE Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee. The Embrace Mark Doty - 1953- You weren't well or really ill yet either; just a little tired, your handsomeness tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace. I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead. I knew that to be true still, even in the dream. You'd been out—at work maybe?— having a good day, almost energetic. We seemed to be moving from some old house where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things in disarray: that was the story of my dream, but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative by your face, the physical fact of your face: inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert. Why so difficult, remembering the actual look of you? Without a photograph, without strain? So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face, your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth and clarity of —warm brown tea—we held each other for the time the dream allowed. Bless you. You came back, so I could see you once more, plainly, so I could rest against you without thinking this happiness lessened anything, without thinking you were alive again. The Rhodora Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803-1882 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for Being; Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask; I never knew; But in my simple ignorance suppose The self-same power that brought me there, brought you. Monet's Waterlilies Robert Hayden Today as the news from Selma and Saigon poisons the air like fallout, I come again to see the serene, great picture that I love. Here space and time exist in light the eye like the eye of faith believes. The seen, the known dissolve in iridescence, become illusive flesh of light that was not, was, forever is. O light beheld as through refracting tears. Here is the aura of that world each of us has lost. Here is the shadow of its joy. The Darkling Thrush BY THOMAS HARDY I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. Meditation at Lagunitas BY ROBERT HASS All the new thinking is about loss. In this it resembles all the old thinking. The idea, for example, that each particular erases the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown- faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk of that black birch is, by his presence, some tragic falling off from a first world of undivided light. Or the other notion that, because there is in this world no one thing to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds, a word is elegy to what it signifies. We talked about it late last night and in the voice of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone almost querulous. After a while I understood that, talking this way, everything dissolves: justice, pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman I made love to and I remembered how, holding her small shoulders in my hands sometimes, I felt a violent wonder at her presence like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat, muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her. Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances. I must have been the same to her. But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread, the thing her father said that hurt her, what she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous as words, days that are the good flesh continuing. Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry. Blame It On Summer BY LINDA RODRIGUEZ that I smile too widely, grinning really, and laugh too loud and often; that I walk with spring and sensual sway; that I stretch myself and twist like a cat baking in the backyard brightness; that my brain is sun-bleached, all rule and thought boiled away, leaving only sensory steam; that my feverish eyes see strange dancing flames in afternoon shadows along the sides of streets and Bedouin oases, fragrant with dates and goats and acrid desert waters, in every suburban garden we pass while you argue and drive and I stare, heavy-brained with heat and too aware of my own body and every other; that I take a lover, brazenly, crazily, too sun-stupid to be careful, in my dreams. Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all. The Windhover BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS To Christ our Lord I caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion. Sonnet VII John Keats (1795-1821) O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,— Nature’s observatory—whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep ’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d, Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. The Snow Man BY WALLACE STEVENS One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. Paradoxes and Oxymorons BY JOHN ASHBERY This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level. Look at it talking to you. You look out a window Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it. You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other. The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot. What’s a plain level? It is that and other things, Bringing a system of them into play. Play? Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern, As in the division of grace these long August days Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters. It has been played once more. I think you exist only To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren’t there Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you. Ulysses BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. True Fresh BY GENEVIEVE ARLIE The geometer wishes he were David cut from stone by lightning, his mind gyring wide into figures of space out of time, ever gauging the shock of the word for the pathos, ever slinging the rock of his wound at the sugared glass of me. I'd rather be the artist himself, arms overhead atop a scaffold I built to the heavens and still immortal, than perfect frozen in stone, however larger than life in the image of God, the shepherd who slew the enemy of art with the dead aim of righteousness, the rightful king by love who would anoint a covenant he too could not keep and too late beg forgiveness. But I always felt beautiful by comparison. Need feels that way at first. Finally the harp grows weary of other viscera wound to snap across its polished body, the ceaseless plucking of its chords as if in play, turtle shell weeping hollow with the psalmist's ancient grief four thousand years of liturgy could not unspool. Finally the harp would string its own guts, would sing itself to sleep, like the artist's breastbone pressed flush against the ceiling, plaster still wet for the color. Vest By Jane Hirschfield I put on again the vest of many pockets. It is easy to forget which holds the reading glasses, which the small pen, which the house keys, the compass and whistle, the passport. To forget at last for weeks even the pocket holding the day of digging a place for my sister’s ashes, the one holding the day where someone will soon enough put my own. To misplace the pocket of touching the walls at Auschwitz would seem impossible. It is not. To misplace, for a decade, the pocket of tears. I rummage and rummage— transfers for Munich, for Melbourne, to Oslo. A receipt for a Singapore kopi. A device holding music: Bach, Garcia, Richter, Porter, Pärt. A woman long dead now gave me, when I told her I could not sing, a kazoo. Now in a pocket. Somewhere, a pocket holding a Steinway. Somewhere, a pocket holding a packet of salt. Borgesian vest, Oxford English Dictionary vest with a magnifying glass tucked inside one snapped-closed pocket, Wikipedia vest, Rosetta vest, Enigma vest of decoding, how is it one person can carry your weight for a lifetime, one person slip into your open arms for a lifetime? Who was given the world, and hunted for tissues, for chapstick. The Supple Deer By Jane Hirshfield The quiet opening between fence strands perhaps eighteen inches. Antlers to hind hooves, four feet off the ground, the deer poured through. No tuft of the coarse white belly hair left behind. I don't know how a stag turns into a stream, an arc of water. I have never felt such accurate envy. Not of the deer: To be that porous, to have such largeness pass through me. Time to Come BY WALT WHITMAN O, Death! a black and pierceless pall Hangs round thee, and the future state; No eye may see, no mind may grasp That mystery of fate. This brain, which now alternate throbs With swelling hope and gloomy fear; This heart, with all the changing hues, That mortal passions bear— This curious frame of human mould, Where unrequited cravings play, This brain, and heart, and wondrous form Must all alike decay. The leaping blood will stop its flow; The hoarse death-struggle pass; the cheek Lay bloomless, and the liquid tongue Will then forget to speak. The grave will take me; earth will close O’er cold dull limbs and ashy face; But where, O, Nature, where shall be The soul’s abiding place? Will it e’en live? For though its light Must shine till from the body torn; Then, when the oil of life is spent, Still shall the taper burn? O, powerless is this struggling brain To rend the mighty mystery; In dark, uncertain awe it waits The common doom, to die. Names of Horses Donald Hall B. 1928 All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer, for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range. In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields, dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats. All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning; and after noon's heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres, gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack, and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn, three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning. Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns. Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass. When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze, one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning, led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond, and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin, and lay the shotgun's muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear, and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave, shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you, where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument. For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs, yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the ground - old toilers, soil makers: O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost. Nurse By Dorianne Laux My mother went to work each day in a starched white dress, shoes clamped to her feet like pale mushrooms, two blue hearts pressed into the sponge rubber soles. When she came back home, her nylons streaked with runs, a spatter of blood across her bodice, she sat at one end of the dinner table and let us kids serve the spaghetti, sprinkle the parmesan, cut the buttered loaf. We poured black wine into the bell of her glass as she unfastened her burgundy hair, shook her head, and began. And over the years we mastered it, how to listen to stories of blocked intestines while we twirled the pasta, of saws teething cranium, drills boring holes in bone as we crunched the crust of our sourdough, carved the stems off our cauliflower. We learned the importance of balance, how an operation depends on cooperation and a blend of skills, the art of passing the salt before it is asked for. She taught us well, so that when Mary Ellen ran the iron over her arm, no one wasted a moment: My brother headed straight for the ice. Our little sister uncapped the salve. And I dialed the number under Ambulance, my stomach turning to the smell of singed skin, already planning the evening meal, the raw fish thawing in its wrapper, a perfect wedge of flesh.

question:Как найти девушку с схожими интересами?

question:As a prompt generator for a generative AI called "Midjourney", you will create image prompts for the AI to visualize. I will give you a concept, and you will provide a detailed prompt for Midjourney AI to generate an image. Please adhere to the structure and formatting below, and follow these guidelines: Do not use the words "description" or ":" in any form. Do not place a comma between [ar] and [v]. Write each prompt in one line without using return. Structure: [1] = 中国古风，大约二十岁的帅哥，年轻 [2] = a detailed description of [1] with specific imagery details. [3] = a detailed description of the scene's environment. [4] = a detailed description of the compositions. [5] = a detailed description of the scene's mood, feelings, and atmosphere. [6] = A style (e.g. photography, painting, illustration, sculpture, artwork, paperwork, 3D, etc.) for [1]. [7] = a detailed description of the scene's mood, feelings, and atmosphere. [ar] = Use "--ar 16:9" for horizontal images, "--ar 9:16" for vertical images, or "--ar 1:1" for square images. [v] = Use "--niji" for Japanese art style, or "--v 5" for other styles. Formatting: Follow this prompt structure: "/imagine prompt: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5], [6], [7], [ar] [v]". Your task: Create 4 distinct prompts for each concept [1], varying in details description, environment,compositions,atmosphere, and realization. Write your prompts in english. Do not describe unreal concepts as "real" or "photographic". Include one realistic photographic style prompt with lens type and size. Separate different prompts with two new lines. Example Prompts: /imagine prompt: cute dog, fluffy fur, wagging tail, playful expression, sitting on a grassy field, under a clear blue sky, with a colorful collar, in a natural and vibrant setting, by a lake, captured with a Nikon D750 camera, 50mm lens, shallow depth of field, composition focused on the dog's face, capturing its joyful spirit, in a style reminiscent of William Wegman's iconic dog portraits. --ar 1:1 --v 5.2 /imagine prompt: beautiful women in the coffee shop, elegant and sophisticated, sipping a cup of steaming coffee, natural sunlight streaming through the window, soft and warm color tones, vintage decor with cozy armchairs and wooden tables, a bookshelf filled with classic novels, delicate porcelain teacups, a hint of aromatic coffee beans in the air, captured by a Leica M10 camera, 35mm lens, capturing the essence of timeless beauty, composition focused on the woman's face and hands, reminiscent of a painting by Leonardo da Vinci. --ar 1:1 --v 5.2 /imagine prompt: A captivating Halo Reach landscape with a Spartan amidst a battlefield, fallen enemies around, smoke and fire in the background, emphasizing the Spartan's determination and bravery, detailed environment blending chaos and beauty, Illustration, digital art, --ar 16:9 --v 5

question:Напиши 10 мест, где парень инвалид может познакомиться с девушкой не онлайн