Caseena
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I once memorized "The Erlking" to recite in a class. I used different voices for the narrator, the boy, the father, and the erlking. I've forgotten it now, but the meter made for easier memorization than a free verse poem. Reply #101. Nov 18 13, 2:47 PM |
brm50diboll
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Ogden Nash sticks with me. He's so funny. Reply #102. Dec 15 13, 9:30 AM |
Reynariki
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I remember bits and pieces of different poems that I liked, but there's only one poetry piece I can still recite in its entirety - the prologue to "The Bronze Horseman" by Alexander Pushkin. I memorized it on a dare, and that's probably the reason why it stuck with me. Reply #103. Dec 15 13, 3:09 PM |
Nammage
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I used to have to walk to work in 1998 (I was 21 years old) because I lived in a small town, no public transportation during the nights I worked, and I just couldn't get a ride from anyone. It was 2.5 miles there and 2.5 miles back, though sometimes I was able to get a ride home. So, when I walked the distance I got bored; used to listen to music but batteries always ran out quickly, and so at the time I was reading Hamlet (not for anything but enjoyment), and I could recite this forward, backward, did it in different accents etc., To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.--Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd. -- Today, I can only recite the first four lines. -Nam Reply #104. Mar 13 14, 12:43 PM |
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