English: Fun Corner

12 Things that great teachers do
[[Media:12_things_that_great_teachers_do_Parashuram_Pawar_GHS_Joladal_Channagiri_Davangere.pdf| 12 things that great teachers do]]

Source: www.geoffbarton.co.uk Shared by Parashuram Pawar, GHS Joladal, Channagiri, Davangere

BBC Poetry Season
Dear English Friends, Perhaps this is the most busy month of the present academic year for all Indian school teachers. As the the exam time is going to concludes this month, the summer holidays draws in. And as the summer season draws in, it is time for the most to stay out of many academic activities under pretension that  they need academic rest to play out many of their dreams outside the domain. Yes! it may also be a time to laze for dull some. But the intelligent and wise some welcome any vacation in a different sense: for them it is time to explore more! exploring more than what is bound in syllabus or routine. Really, the blessed are those who can make use of IT for their own benefits. Internet has everything to offer for those studious some. The door of this subject teacher forum will never close to those who want to stay with the community.

Directly to the topic: Poetry in any language is something that give ultimate meaning to the world we see around. The link I pasted here under is an example for how internet offers us everything ! Please click on the link below and find poems sorted under alphabetic order. Enjoy the poem from the land of English.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason/poems/

Regards. Let us start with

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

''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.

Oh, for a draught of vintage that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim -

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! For I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards. Already with thee! Tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild - White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling, I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy. Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain - To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.

Forlorn! The very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! The fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music... Do I wake or sleep? ''

Source: http://www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason/poems/ode_to_a_nightingale.shtml

Shared by Tharanath Achar, Belthangady