Appreciation of English Literary Texts: G.C.E..Ordinary Level

Preface
G.C.E..Ordinary Level
Copyright 2006 National Institute of Education - Sri Lanka. All rights reserved.
This new Appreciation of English Literary Texts will be implemented

from year 2007 onwards, and the students who offer this subject are
expected to sit for the examination for the first time in year 2008.
Appreciation of English
Literary Texts
Important Notice
Poems, non fiction and drama texts mentioned in the
syllabus are available here. Reproduction of them
commercially in any form is entirely prohibited as the
authors have given their consent for publishing them only in
the publication by the Educational Publications
Department. Failing to adhere to this is liable for legal
action by the authors and publishers. They are published
here only for the purpose of easy access to materials by the
students and teachers.
Department of English
NIE
The need for a revision of the current syllabus was felt as an urgent need
for the improvement of the subject in the school system, and at the same
time there was a need for a syllabus revision since the present syllabus
has been used for more than ten years. It was established from feedback
received from the school system that both the teachers and the students
were waiting eagerly for some new experience with regard to literature.
With the revised syllabus, it is expected that they will be exposed to a
whole new world of creative writing and literary exploration.
The syllabus consists of works of English as well as non-English writers
who write in English, providing the students as opportunity to get
themselves exposed to the world of literature in English. The Macmillan
edition of the prescribed novels should be used in the classroom.
Students will be tested on The Village by the Sea or Jane Eyre at the
G.C.E. O/L Examination. School Based Assessment must be done by the
teachers on one of the following novels suggested for reading for
enjoyment.
Les Miserables
- Victor Hugo
(Macmillan abridged version)
Great Expectations - Charles Dickens (Macmillan abridged version)
Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain
It is our hope that it would help the teachers and students to explore
Literature in English with interest and subsequently to improve
their language.
Syllabus for Appreciation of English Literary Texts

G.C.E. Ordinary Level
From Year 2007
Poems for Extra Reading (not to be tested on)

An extract from Michael - William Wordsworth
The Lamb William Blake
She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron
Bury Me In a Free Land Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Those Winter Sundays Robert Hayden
Poems The Sea J. Reeves

The Lake Isle of Innisfree W.B.Yeats
She dwelt among the untrodden ways William Wordsworth
A Minor Bird Robert Frost
War and violence
Charge of the Light Brigade Lord Tennyson
Anthem for Doomed Youth Wilfred Owen
Where have all the flowers gone Pete Seeger
Anne Frank huis Andrew Motion
Life
Leave Taking Cecil Rajendra
The Seven Ages of Man Shakespeare
Paying Calls Thomas Hardy
Mid Term Break Seamus Heaney
Society
Wedding Photographs Jean Arasanayagam
The Garden of Love William Blake
A Worker Reads History Bertolt Brecht
Night Mail W.H.Auden
Theme: Nature
Novels Village by the Sea Anita Desai

OR
Jane Eyre Charlotte Bronte
Les Miserables Victor Hugo

Great Expectations Charles Dickens
Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain

Short Stories and Non- Fiction

Monkeys Punyakante Wijenaike
Gift of the Magi O.Henry
Life and Death of Cholmondeley (edited) Gerald Durrell
The Dark Years an extract from Nelson Mandelas auto biography Long
Walk to Freedom
Drama
Villa for Sale Sacha Guitry
Every man
- A morality play
2
Students will be tested on The Village by the Sea or Jane Eyre

at the G.C.E. (O/L) Examination.
School Based Assessment must be done by the teachers on one of
the following novels suggested for reading for enjoyment.
Humour
Parrot Alan Brownjohn
The Pigtail William Makepeace Thackarey
Matilda Hilaire Belloc
Father William Lewis Carroll
(Penguin edition)
Nature
The Lake Isle of Innisfree W.B.Yeats
The sea is a hungry dog,

Giant and grey.
He rolls on the beach all day.
With clashing teeth and shaggy jaws
Hour upon hour he gnaws
The rumbling, tumbling stones,
And Bones, bones, bones, bones!
The giant sea-dog moans,
Licking his greasy paws.
And when the night wind roars
And the moon rocks in the stormy cloud,
He bounds to his feet and snuffs and sniffs,
Shaking his wet side over the cliffs,
And howls and hollos long and loud.
But one quiet day in May or June,
When even the grass on the dune
Play no more their reedy tune,
With his head between his paws
He lies on the sandy shores,
So quiet, so quiet, he scarcely snores
THE SEA J.Reeves
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean- rows I will have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnights all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnets wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore:
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep hearts core.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways

-William Wordsworth
A Minor Bird Robert Frost
I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;
She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Besides the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one
is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave,and,oh,
The difference to me!
Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
War and violence

Charge of the Light Brigade - Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of death
Rode the six hundred.
.Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns! he said.
Into the valley of Death
Forward, the Light Brigade!
Was there a man dismayed?
.Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
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 mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre- stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Anthem for Doomed Youth Wilfred Owen
Cannon to right of them,

Canon to left of them
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
What passing- bells for these who die as cattle?

-Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifels 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.
WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE

Gone for soldiers every one
When will they ever learn?
Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing
Long time ago
Girls have picked them every one
Where have all the young girls gone?

Long time passing
Long time ago
Taken husbands every one
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing
Long time ago
Words and music by Pete Seeger

Performed by Pete Seeger and Tao Rodriguez-Seeger
Where have all the soldiers gone?

Long time passing
Long time ago
Gone to graveyards every one
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing
Long time ago
Covered with flowers every one
Anne Frank huis Andrew Motion
Life
Even now, after twice her lifetime of grief

and anger in the very place, whoever comes
to climb these narrow stairs, discovers how
the bookcase slides aside, then walks through
shadow into sunlit rooms, can never help
Leave- taking Cecil Rajendra
but break her secrecy again. Just listening

is a kind of guilt: the Westerkirk repeats
itself outside, as if all time worked round
towards her fear, and made each stroke
die down on guarded streets. Imagine itthree years of whispering and loneliness
and plotting, day by day, the Allied line
in Europe with a yellow chalk. What hope
she had for ordinary love and interest
survives her here, displayed above the bed
as pictures of her family; some actors;
fashions chosen by Princes Elizabeth.
And those who stoop to see them find
Not only patience missing its reward,
But one enduring wish for chances
Like my own: to leave as simply
As I do, and walk at ease
Up dusty tree-lined avenues, or watch
A silent barge come clear of bridges
Settling their reflections in the blue canal.
The only joy

of his old age
he often said
was his grandson
Their friendship
straddled
eight decades
three generations
They laughed, played quarreled, embraced
watched television together
and while the rest had
little to say to the old man
the little fellow was
a fountain of endless chatter.
When death rattled
the gate at five
one Sunday morning
took the old man away
others trumpeted their
grief in loud sobs
and lachrymose blubber
The Seven Ages of Man William Shakespeare
He never shed a tear

Just waved one of his
small inimitable goodbyes
to his grand father
and was sad the old man
could not return his gesture
All the worlds a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurses arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannons mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lind,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipperd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well savd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Mid- Term Break Seamus Heaney

Paying Calls- Thomas Hardy
I sat all morning in the college sick bay.

Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o clock our neighbours drove me home.
I went by footpath and by stile

Beyond where bustle ends,
Strayed here a mile and there a mile
And called upon some friends.
On certain ones I had not seen
For years past did I call,
And on others who had been
The oldest friends of all.
It was the time of midsummer
When they had used to roam;
But now, though tempting was the air,
I found them all at home.
I spoke to one and other of them
By mound and stone and tree
Of things we had done ere days were dim,
But they spoke not to me
In the porch I met my father cryingHe had always taken funerals in his stride
And big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were sorry for my trouble;
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten oclock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the
nurses.
Next morning I went up to the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scares, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year
10
Society
Wedding Photographs (an extract)- Jean Arasanayagam
Have you any wedding photographs, I ask achchi,
No nothing, answers my mother-in-law,
It all happened well over a half century ago,

No, there are no reminders of traditional poses
Framed behind glass but I see them both,
Pata, achchi seated on that velvet-covered divan
Beneath the flower decked manaverai,
Achchis slender neck, she was only sixteen and small,
So fragile, weighed down by that thali of twenty
Gold sovereigns.
That marriage bed, once strewn with flowers
Vacated by Patas death, the bed dismantled,
Cast aside, its purpose over.
In that dawn, so distant now,
Childbride my mother-in-law woke from sleep
Still swathed in folds of vermilion marriage silk
Her jewels warmed against her body,
That heirloomed heritage adorning flower-fragrant
Flesh, her loosened hair with its crushed jasmines
Flowing over her shoulders, wandering alone in the garden
Dew glistering on her white feet
Silver toe-rings misted over,
Whispering below her breath
Now I am a woman
I will carry on the sacred traditions
Worship the gods and goddesses at my shrine
Bring forth sons and daughters.
11
Did she regret that her playtime was now over?

We sit face to face, musing over each others
Lives, thinking of gnarled feet stepping over the shambles
Of a ruined house, of our spent lives, of age and passing
time.
I was an orphan, achchi said,
Who then gave her that ritual bath of milk and honey,
Who braided her hair with fresh white jasmines,
Who painted henna patterns on her hands and
On the soles of her feet?
Jewels I had, she continued,
Attiyal with rubies, emeralds, brilliants,
Gold bangles, earrings, mukutti with pearls,
With rubies and diamonds, houses, I had properties, so
much land,
I lacked nothing, I followed the sacred rituals,
Walked round the yaham with its everlasting
Flame, I remained faithful unto death to Pata,
He was handsome with his milk white skin
And slender limbs, I was so young,
He was twenty years older.
A Worker Reads History-Bertolt Brecht

The Garden of Love William Blake
I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
Who built the seven gates of Thebes?

The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed,
Who built the city up each time? In which of Limas houses
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
If full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesar triumph? Byzantium lives in song,
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the sea rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.
Young Alexander conquered India.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Philip of Spain wept as his fleet
Was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Great triumphed in the Seven Years War. Who
Triumphed with him?
Each page a victory,
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?
So many particulars.
So many questions
12
Night Mail W.H.Auden
This is the Night Mail crossing the Border

Bringing the cheque and postal order
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradients against her, but shes on time
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder,
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily, as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs can not turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
Dawn freshens, the climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.
13
Letters of thanks letters from banks,

Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,

Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides.
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the hearts outpouring
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong
Humour
Thousands are still asleep

Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranstons or Crawfords:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postmans knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten
Parrot Alan Brownjohn
14
Sometimes I sit with both eyes closed,

But all the same, Ive heard;
Theyre saying He wont talk because
He is a thinking bird.
Im olive green and sulky, and
The family say, Oh yes,
Hes silent but he is listening
He thinks more than he says.
He ponders on the things he hears,
Preferring not to chatter!
And this is true, but why its true
Is quite another matter.
Im working on some shocking things
In order to surprise them,
And when my thoughts are ready Ill
Certainly not disguise them!
Ill wait and see and choose a time
When everyone is present,
And clear my throat and raise my beak
And give a squawk and start to speak
And go on for about a week
And it will not be pleasant
MATILDA Hillaire Belloc
THE PIGTAIL- William Makepeace Thackeray

THERE lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore:
But wondered much and sorrowed more
Because it hung behind him.
He mused upon this curious case,

And swore hed change the pigtails place,
And have it hanging at his face.
Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, The mystery Ive foundIll turn me round he turned him round;
But still it hung behind him.
Then round, and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain it mattered not a pin
The pigtail hung behind him.
And right, and left, and round about,
And up, and down, and in, and out,
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
Alas! Still faithful to his back
The pigtail hangs behind him.
15
Matilda told such dreadful lies,

It made one gasp and stretch ones eyes;
Her aunt, who, from her earliest youth,
Had kept strict regard for truth,
Attempted to believe Matilda;
The effort very nearly killed her
And would have done so, had not she
Discovered this infirmity.
For, once towards the close of day,
Matilda, growing tired of play
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the telephone
And summoned the immediate aid
Of Londons Noble Fire Brigade
Within an hour the gallant band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow,
With courage high and hearts a-glow
They galloped, roaring through the town,
Matildas house is burning down
Inspired by British cheers and loud
Proceeding from the frenzied crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the ball-room floor;
And took peculiar pains to souse
The pictures up and down the house,
Until Matildas aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed
An even then she had to pay
To get the men to go away!
It happened that a few weeks later

Here aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that interesting play
The Second Mrs.Tanqueray.
She had refused to take her niece
To hear this entertaining piece:
A deprivation just and wise
To punish her for telling lies.
That night a fire did break outYou should have heard Matilda shout!
You should have seen her screen and bawl,
And throw the widow up and call
To people passing in the street(The rapidly increasing heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidence)- but it was all in vain!
For every time she shouted Fire!
They only answered Little Liar!
And therefore when her aunt returned,
Matilda and the house were burned.
You are Old, Father William
Lewis Carroll
16
Repeat You are old, Father William, said the

Alice folded her hand and began:-You are old, father William, the young man said
And your hair has become very white:
And yet you incessantly stand on your head
Do you think at your age, it is right?
In my mouth, father William replied to his son,

I feared it would injure the brain;
But now that Im perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.
You are old, said the youth, as I mentioned before,

And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door
Pray, what is the reason of that?
In my youth, said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment one shilling the box
Allow me to sell you a couple.
Poems for Extra Reading
You are old, said the youth, and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak Pray, how did you manage to do it?
An extract from Michael by William Wordsworth
In my youth, said his father, I took to the law,

And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.
You are old, said the youth; one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose
What made you so awfully clever?
I have answered three questions, and that is enough,
Said his father; dont give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or Ill kick you down stairs!
17
There is a comfort in the strength of love;

Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart;
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,
And listened to the wind; and, as before,
Performed all kind of labor for his sheep,
And for the land, his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
His flock had need. Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old Man- and tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stone.
There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone or with his faithful Dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at the building of his Sheepfold wrought,
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years, or lttle more, did Isabel
Survive her husband: at her death the estate
Was sold and went into a strangers hand.
The Lamb William Blake
The Cottage which was named The Evening Stsr

Is gone- the plowshare has been through the ground
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighborhood; yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished Sheepfol may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
18
Little Lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and oer the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, wooly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, Ill tell thee,
Little Lamb, Ill tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and he is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
BURY ME IN A FREE LAND

- Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron
Make me a grave whereer you will,

In a lowly plain, or a lofty hills,
Make it among earths humblest graves
But not in a land where men are slaves.
She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all thats best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaird the nameless grace
Which waves every raven tress,
Of softly lightens oer her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and oer that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
19
I could not rest if around my grave

I heard the steps of a trembling slave:
His shadow above my slent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom
I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mothers shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.
I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.
Id shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of blood- hounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.
If I saw young girls from their mothers arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eyes would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.
Those Winter Sundays Robert Hayden
I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might

Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.
I ask no monument proud and high
To arrest the gaze of the passers- by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves
20
Sundays too my father go up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hand that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. Not one every thanked
him
Id wake and hear the cold splintering,
breaking.
When the rooms were warm, hed call,
and slowly would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house.
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love austere and lonely offices?

Appreciation of English Literary Texts: G.C.E..Ordinary Level

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Appreciation of English Literary Texts: G.C.E..Ordinary Level

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Preface

This new Appreciation of English Literary Texts will be implemented

Syllabus for Appreciation of English Literary Texts

Poems for Extra Reading (not to be tested on)

Poems The Sea J. Reeves

Novels Village by the Sea Anita Desai

Les Miserables Victor Hugo

(Macmillan abridged version)

Short Stories and Non- Fiction

(Macmillan abridged version)

Students will be tested on The Village by the Sea or Jane Eyre

The sea is a hungry dog,

THE SEA J.Reeves

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

A Minor Bird Robert Frost

I have wished a bird would fly away,

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

War and violence

Half a league, half a league,

Cannon to right of them,

Anthem for Doomed Youth Wilfred Owen

Cannon to right of them,

What passing- bells for these who die as cattle?

WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE

Where have all the flowers gone?

Where have all the young girls gone?

Words and music by Pete Seeger

Where have all the soldiers gone?

Anne Frank huis Andrew Motion

Even now, after twice her lifetime of grief

Leave- taking Cecil Rajendra

but break her secrecy again. Just listening

The only joy

The Seven Ages of Man William Shakespeare

He never shed a tear

All the worlds a stage,

Mid- Term Break Seamus Heaney

I sat all morning in the college sick bay.

I went by footpath and by stile

It all happened well over a half century ago,

Did she regret that her playtime was now over?

A Worker Reads History-Bertolt Brecht

I went to the Garden of Love,

Who built the seven gates of Thebes?

Night Mail W.H.Auden

This is the Night Mail crossing the Border

Letters of thanks letters from banks,

News circumstantial, news financial,

Thousands are still asleep

Parrot Alan Brownjohn

Sometimes I sit with both eyes closed,

MATILDA Hillaire Belloc

THE PIGTAIL- William Makepeace Thackeray

He mused upon this curious case,

Matilda told such dreadful lies,

It happened that a few weeks later

You are Old, Father William