Read this poem and answer questions that follow: Far far from gusty waves these children's faces. Like rootless weeds, the hair torn around their pallor The tall girl with her weighed-down head. The paper-seeming boy, with rat's eyes. ............The stunted, unlucky heir of twisted bones, reciting a father's gnarled disease, His lesson, from his desk. At the back of the dim class One unnoted, sweet and young. His eyes live in a dream Of squirrel's game, in tree room other than this. On sour cream walls, donations, Shakespeare's head, Cloudless at... Show more Read this poem and answer questions that follow: Far far from gusty waves these children's faces. Like rootless weeds, the hair torn around their pallor The tall girl with her weighed-down head. The paper-seeming boy, with rat's eyes. ............The stunted, unlucky heir of twisted bones, reciting a father's gnarled disease, His lesson, from his desk. At the back of the dim class One unnoted, sweet and young. His eyes live in a dream Of squirrel's game, in tree room other than this. On sour cream walls, donations, Shakespeare's head, Cloudless at dawn, civilized dome riding all cities. Belled, flowery, Tyrolese valley. Open-handed map Awarding the world its world. And yet, for these Children, these windows, not this map, their world. Where all their future's painted with a fog, A narrow street sealed in with a lead sky Far far from rivers, capes, and stars of words. Surely, Shakespeare is wicked, the map a bad example, With ships and sun and love tempting them to steal— For lives that slyly turn in their cramped holes From fog to endless night? Unless, governor, inspector, visitor, This map becomes their window and these windows That shut upon their lives like catacombs, Break O break open till they break the town And show the children to green fields, and make their world Run azure on gold sands, and let their tongues Run naked into books the white and green leaves open History theirs whose language is the sun. Show less
Read this poem and answer questions that follow:
Far far from gusty waves these children's faces. Like rootless weeds, the hair torn around their pallor The tall girl with her weighed-down head. The paper-seeming boy, with rat's eyes.
............The stunted, unlucky heir of twisted bones, reciting a father's gnarled disease, His lesson, from his desk. At the back of the dim class One unnoted, sweet and young. His eyes live in a dream Of squirrel's game, in tree room other than this.
On sour cream walls, donations, Shakespeare's head, Cloudless at dawn, civilized dome riding all cities. Belled, flowery, Tyrolese valley. Open-handed map Awarding the world its world.
And yet, for these Children, these windows, not this map, their world. Where all their future's painted with a fog, A narrow street sealed in with a lead sky Far far from rivers, capes, and stars of words.
Surely, Shakespeare is wicked, the map a bad example, With ships and sun and love tempting them to steal— For lives that slyly turn in their cramped holes From fog to endless night?
Unless, governor, inspector, visitor, This map becomes their window and these windows That shut upon their lives like catacombs,
Break O break open till they break the town And show the children to green fields, and make their world Run azure on gold sands, and let their tongues Run naked into books the white and green leaves open History theirs whose language is the sun.
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