She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron: Poem #5

She Walks In Beauty by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er 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!

Ellie and Jacqueline: Compare and Contrast Essay

Katie Hines

10/11/2012

Block 4

Compare and Contrast Essay

Ellie and Jacqueline

            My two cousins, Ellie and Jacqueline, are sisters; they look exactly alike. Blonde hair, tiny frames, and dark blue eyes shared by both. These girls could not look more similar, and could not be more different. Ellie is happy, naïve, innocent. Jacqueline is misunderstood, angry, she has seen too much. She has been corrupted by the world too soon, while Ellie has not yet left the light. Jacqueline is young no longer; her innocence has been torn away by heartless bullies leaving her empty. Ellie does not see the horrors of the world that haunt Jacqueline; she sees the blessings in the world that are given to them both.

            When I ask Ellie what she wants to be as a grown up, she looks at me with sureness and states that, obviously, she would like to be a flower. I smile and laugh, looking over to Jacqueline, only a short year older, asking her the same. “I don’t know. Probably nothing,” she replies, and my heart breaks. This girl in front of me, the mere age of seven, seems so much older, so much sadder. Ellie furrows her little brows, her sparkling eyes filling with confusion, “You have to be something. You could be a princess, or a flower, like me.” I nod in agreement and look back to Jacqueline as she rolls her eyes in frustration, “I can’t be a flower or a princess, and neither can you.”

            Ellie adores everything pink, bright, and sparkly, just like her personality. Spunky and cute, she wears flower dresses and blue bows, almost as beautiful as her eyes. She begs me to let her raid my closet and find “grown up” clothes to wear, even though they swallow her whole. She tromps around the house in her mother’s nicest heels to show off her “model walk”. Jacqueline, she does not anymore. She wears anything black or gray like thunderous storm clouds, never doing a thing with her silken blonde hair. She throws a fit when asked to wear something presentable to Church, is shocked when told to comb her golden locks. Jacqueline is not Ellie, but she is not herself.

            Ellie is the classic child: she loves Pop Tarts and candy and chocolate milk; she hates broccoli and spinach and asparagus. Jacqueline does not eat Pop Tarts or candy or any other fun foods. She does not eat vegetables or fruits, or chicken or toast. Eating is a foreign concept to her. Jacqueline must eat at least five bites of her food before being excused, which usually results in a massive battle of stare downs to see who will crack first. Ellie is always waiting impatiently for dinner to be cooked and Jacqueline is always praying it will burn.

            Ellie and Jacqueline are sisters on the outside. One might mistake them for twins. But I know better. From the way they dress to the things they say, these girls are polar opposites, on different sides of the world. Jacqueline and Ellie are a burning inferno and an icy blizzard, a light drizzle and a hurricane. My cousins are so connected, yet so far apart. So transparent, but so oblique. So bright, but never more faded.

A Bird Came Down by Emily Dickenson: Poem #4

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.

Elizabeth by Edgar Allen Poe: Poem #3

Elizabeth

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
[Logic and common usage so commanding]
In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
[Called anything, its meaning is the same]
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

Edgar Allan Poe

Who Am I?

Katie Hines

10/4/2012

Block 4

“Who Am I?” Essay

 

             Soft rain drizzling down on a horse’s back, slipping off like tiny beads of glass. A bright, golden sunset on a summer night that takes one’s breath away. The sweet smell of fresh hay and horse feed. These are things that make me who I am. I am not a person that could simply be summed up by saying that I am fifteen and attend Hoggard High School. Those are things outsiders see. They see a normal girl, with normal clothes and a normal life; the onlookers see what they wish to see. I cannot say I am any different. Often times, I look at people and simply keep going, assuming their lives are perfect. The person I want to become is the person who sees people, truly sees them. Somebody who slows down and catches each tear that falls from another’s eye. I know that I will never be a pageant queen, or the girl who “has it all”. But I can be the girl who gives it all, and every day I try to do just that…yet every day I fail.

             All of my life, I have wished that I could speak up, find my voice. I believed that my quietness was a character flaw, and sometimes, I still do. But the loud, obnoxious girl that calls out in class could never be successful around horses. Horses need calm, they need the quiet. I simply close my eyes and listen. That is my voice. That is me, standing up and crying out to the world about how special God made these animals and how they bring the best out of me. Through these beautiful creations, I have found myself. I have found my safe place. More than anything, I have found my hope.

             My sister, Emily, is everything I always wanted to be. Beautiful, blonde, and smart as a whip, she is always “miss popular”. Don’t forget her amazing musical abilities, piano and singing. It is a genetic abnormality in my family to lack an interest in music, so it came as a big surprise when I never could quite pick it up. My singing was not horrible (as in, I did not cause permanent damage to ears), but my piano playing sounded like a cat dying. I have always felt a little out of place in my family, just a bit different. My mother, the concert pianist, has fully supported my other sister who is currently majoring in violin and not missed a single concert, yet she cannot seem to care enough to come see me compete with my horses. Don’t get me wrong, this is not some sob story about how my parents do not love me, because they do. They pay for my riding lessons and I know they are proud of me. But sometimes, it just leaves a small sting that I cannot shake.

             On long, arduous days that seem to drag on and on, there is a saying that helps me keep looking up. “Believe that life is worth living and your belief will help create the fact.” ~William James. If I constantly look down and all I see is the dirt, I will never see the bright blue sky. I am not saying that some days, I am not a wreck and simply want to go back to bed. I am saying that in order for things to get better, one must want them to get better. Nothing comes for free. If I need something, all I need do is ask. It might not come today, or tomorrow, but at the perfect moment, it will happen. I prayed for a Mustang in the year of 2004, but I could not have handled Blue and Clay at the age of eight. Four years later to the day, I got so much more than I could have ever asked for. I will be forever grateful for these angels that saved me. That is who I am. I am not the girl who saves a bunch of rescue horses, I am the girl who’s rescue horses saved her.   

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost: Poem #2

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Opportunity 6

Katie Hines

10/1/2012

Block 4

Opportunity 6

The Last Judgment by Michelangelo  

The Last Judgment took almost twenty four years for Michelangelo to complete. He wanted the colors to be noticeably different from the Sistine Ceiling, because he wanted different effects than in the ceiling frescoes-and the fact that the money for the paints was coming from the Pope, rather than Michelangelo himself. It is a common misconception that he painted all of the angels going to Heaven, when in reality many souls were being cast off to Hell.  A few African people are painted with Rosary Beads because they were often used in missionary work being done in Africa. Michelangelo did not actually desire to paint The Last Judgment, however Pope Paul III insisted that the retired painter create it.