William wordsworth anecdote for fathers analysis

This should provide both a summary and analysis of the reading. Because there are multiple poems, you may choose 2 from the reading you wish to focus on. I will be grading this, not based on whether or not your analysis is right or wrong, but based on whether or not it is evident to me from your response that you both read and thought about the readingWilliam Wordsworth, Anecdote for Fathers (1798) I have a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. Now, little Edward, say why so: My little Edward, tell me why. -I cannot tell, I do not know. -Why, this is strange, said I; One morn we strolled on our dry walk, Our quiet home all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do. For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea. My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, Our pleasant home when spring began, A long, long year before. At this, my boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; And three times to the child I said, Why, Edward, tell me why? A day it was when I could bear Some fond regrets to entertain; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain. His head he raised -- there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain -Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane. The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade. Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And eased his mind with this reply: At Kilve there was no weather-cock; And that's the reason why. Birds warbled round me -- and each trace of inward sadness had its charm; Kilve, thought I, was a favored place, And so is Liswyn farm. O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. My boy beside me tripped, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And, as we talked, I questioned him, In very idleness. Now tell me, had you rather be, I said, and took him by the arm, On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm? In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, At Kilve I'd rather be Than here at Liswyn farm. William Wordsworth, The Tables Turned (1798) Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil (Fleurs du mal), 1857 The Rag-Picker's Wine Le Vin de chiffonniers Often, in the red light of a street-lamp Souvent à la clarté rouge d'un réverbère Of which the wind whips the flame and worries the glass, Dont le vent bat la flamme et tourmente le verre, In the heart of some old suburb, muddy labyrinth, Where humanity crawls in a seething ferment, Au coeur d'un vieux faubourg, labyrinthe fangeux Où l'humanité grouille en ferments orageux, One sees a rag-picker go by, shaking his head, Stumbling, bumping against the walls like a poet, He pours out his whole heart in grandiose projects.