Read Yeats’s “The Second Coming,” Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est” and “Anthem for Doomed Youth,” and Brooke’s “Peace.” Reflect and respond to these. Base your analysis on the themes and concepts from the readings and lectures. Provide evidence for any arguments you make with quotes and paraphrases accompanied by in-text citations and a Works Cited page.
Parameters
- The assignment should be double-spaced, 12-point Times New Roman font, with one-inch margins
- Use MLA for citing references and quotations
| This criterion is linked to a Learning OutcomeContent and StructureAll key elements of the assignment are covered in a substantive way. • The essay is at least 500 words • The flow of ideas throughout the essay follows a logical, well-organized pattern • Each paragraph expresses one idea encapsulated in a topic sentence • The introduction and conclusion are engaging, cohesive, and appropriate in their position in the essay • The response is relevant to the reading |
| This criterion is linked to a Learning OutcomeStyle and ClarityElements of style and clarity are strong. • Paragraph and sentence transitions are present and maintain the flow of thought • The tone is appropriate to the content and assignment • A variety of sentence structures are present |
| This criterion is linked to a Learning OutcomeMLA FormattingThe essay is written and formatted in scrupulous adherence to all MLA formatting guidelines for academic papers. |
| This criterion is linked to a Learning OutcomeWritten MechanicsSyntax, grammar, spelling, and punctuation are strong. • No major sentence errors, including fragments and run-ons, are present • Rules of grammar and punctuation are followed. In particular, verbs, pronouns, commas, apostrophes, and semicolons are all used correctly • Spelling is correct • Capitalization, italicization, and quotation marks are used correctly, when necessary |
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Dulce et Decorum Est
BY WILFRED OWEN
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
BY WILFRED OWEN
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Peace
Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping!
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary;
Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there,
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
