path: root/static/poems.js

var challenges = [
    {
        "line": ["A", "presence", "that", "disturbs", "me", "with", "the", "joy"],
        "scansion": ["x", "/x", "/", "x/", "x", "/", "x", "/"],
        "title": "Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey",
        "collection": "Lyrical Ballads",
        "author": "William Wordsworth",
        "meter": "iambic pentameter",
        "ctx": `
And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.
`,
        "link": "https://www.gutenberg.org/files/9622/9622-h/9622-h.htm#poem23",
    },
    {
        "line": "For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', 'x', '/x', 'x', '/', 'x', 'x', '/', 'x', 'x', '/'],
        "title": "The Destruction of Sennacherib",
        "collection": "Hebrew Melodies",
        "author": "Lord Byron",
        "meter": "anapestic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43827/the-destruction-of-sennacherib",
    },
    {
        "line": "Infinite wrath and infinite despair".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x/x', '/', 'x', '/x/', 'x/'],
        "title": "Book IV",
        "collection": "Paradise Lost",
        "author": "John Milton",
        "meter": "iambic pentameter",
        "ctx": `
Me miserable! which way shall I flie
Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire?
Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threatning to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n.
`,
        "link": "https://milton.host.dartmouth.edu/reading_room/pl/book_4/text.shtml",
    },
    {
        "line": "Underneath the moaning hemlocks".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['/x/', 'x', '/x', '/x'],
        "title": "The Famine",
        "collection": "The Song of Hiawatha",
        "author": "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow",
        "meter": "trochaic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine,
Covered her with snow, like ermine;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
`,
        "link": "https://www.gutenberg.org/files/30795/30795-h/30795-h.htm#XX",
    },
    {
        "line": "Melodious birds sing madrigals".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x/x', '/', 'x', '/x/'],
        "title": "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Christopher Marlowe",
        "meter": "iambic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
`,
        "link": "https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Passionate_Shepherd_to_His_Love",
    },
    {
        "line": "To dew her orbs upon the green".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x/', 'x', '/'],
        "title": "Puck, Act II, Scene I",
        "collection": "A Midsummer's Night Dream",
        "author": "William Shakespeare",
        "meter": "iambic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
`,
        "link": "http://shakespeare.mit.edu/midsummer/full.html#2.1.2",
    },
    {
        "line": "What lips my lips have kissed and where and why".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/'],
        "title": "Sonnet XLIII",
        "collection": "",
        "author": "Edna St. Vincent Millay",
        "meter": "iambic pentameter",
        "ctx": `
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46557/what-lips-my-lips-have-kissed-and-where-and-why",
    },
    {
        "line": "Locked and frozen in each eye".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['/', 'x', '/x', '/', 'x', '/'],
        "title": "In Memory of W. B. Yeats",
        "collection": "",
        "author": "W. H. Auden",
        "meter": "catalectic trochaic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
`,
        "link": "https://poets.org/poem/memory-w-b-yeats",
    },
    {
        "line": "To skies that knit their heartstrings right".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/x', '/'],
        "title": "From Clee to heaven the beacon burns",
        "collection": "A Shropshire Lad",
        "author": "A. E. Housman",
        "meter": "iambic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
    To fields that bred them brave,
The saviours come not home to-night:
    Themselves they could not save.
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44410/a-shropshire-lad-1-from-clee-to-heaven-the-beacon-burns",
    },
    {
        "line": "Into the jaws of Death".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['/x', 'x', '/', 'x', 'x'],
        "title": "The Charge of the Light Brigade",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Alfred, Lord Tennyson",
        "meter": "dactylic dimeter",
        "ctx": `
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
    Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
    Rode the six hundred.
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45319/the-charge-of-the-light-brigade",
    },
    {
        "line": "Like a moonlit poplar branch".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['/', 'x', '/x', '/x', '/'],
        "title": "Goblin Market",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Christina Rossetti",
        "meter": "catalectic iambic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44996/goblin-market",
    },
    {
        "line": "Two separate divided silences".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', '/x/', 'x/x', '/x/'],
        "title": "Severed Selves",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Dante Rossetti",
        "meter": "iambic pentameter",
        "ctx": `
Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas: —

Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam? —
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past, —
Which beams and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
`,
        "link": "http://www.rossettiarchive.org/docs/sonnets.lcms.rad.html#21-1871",
    },
    {
    },
    {
    },
    {
    },
    {
    },
    {
    },
    {
    },
    {
        "line": "The art of losing isnt hard to master".split(' '),
        "scansion": 'x / x /x /x / x /x',
        "title": "One Art",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Elizabeth Bishop",
        "meter": "hendecasyllabic",
        "ctx": `
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47536/one-art",
    },
    {
        "line": "His soul stretched tight across the skies".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x/', 'x', '/'],
        "title": "Preludes",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "T. S. Eliot",
        "meter": "iambic tetrameter",
        "ctx": `
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44214/preludes-56d22338dc954",
    },
    {
        "line": "Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', '/x', '/', 'x', '/x', '/', 'x', '/'],
        "title": "Ode to a Nightingale",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "John Keats",
        "meter": "iambic pentameter",
        "ctx": `
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
`,
        "link": "https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44479/ode-to-a-nightingale",
    },
    {
        "line": "I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/x', '/'],
        "title": "Sonnet On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Oscar Wilde",
        "meter": "iambic pentameter",
        "ctx": `
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A bird at evening flying to its nest
Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
And the fields echo to the gleaner's song,
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.
`,
        "link": "http://www.literaturecollection.com/a/wilde/343/",
    },
    {
        "line": "Frenetic to be free makes one red stretch for home".split(' '),
        "scansion": ['x/x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/', 'x', '/'],
        "title": "Fifine at the Fair",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Robert Browning",
        "meter": "alexandrine",
        "ctx": `
    Yet morning promised much: for, pitched and slung and reared
On terrace ’neath the tower, ’twixt tree and tree appeared
An airy structure; how the pennon from its dome,
Frenetic to be free, makes one red stretch for home!
The home far and away, the distance where lives joy,
The cure, at once and ever, of world and world’s annoy;
Since, what lolls full in front, a furlong from the booth,
But ocean-idleness, sky-blue and millpond-smooth?
`,
        "link": "https://telelib.com/authors/B/BrowningRobert/verse/misc/fifineatthefair.html",
    },
    {
        "line": "Death feeds on his mute voice and laughs at our despair".split(' '),
        "scansion": 'x / x / x / x / x / x/',
        "title": "Adonais",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Percy Bysshe Shelley",
        "meter": "alexandrine",
        "ctx": `
Oh weep for Adonais-he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep,
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone where all things wise and fair
Descend. Oh dream not that the amorous deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair .
`,
        "link": "http://www.english.emory.edu/classes/Handbook/Spenserian.html",
    },
    {
        "line": "Rage rage against the dying of the light".split(' '),
        "scansion": 'x / x/ x /x / x /',
        "title": "Do not go gentle into that good night",
        "collection": null,
        "author": "Dylan Thomas",
        "meter": "iambic pentameter",
        "ctx": `
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
`,
        "link": "https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night",
    },
]
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