What are you doing here, poet, on the ruinsOf St. John's Cathedral this sunnyDay in spring?What are you thinking here, where the windBlowing from the Vistula scattersThe red dust of the rubble?You swore never to beA ritual mourner.You swore never to touchThe deep wounds of your nationSo you would not make them holyWith the accursed holiness that pursuesDescendants for many centuries.But the lament of AntigoneSearching for her brotherIs indeed beyond the powerOf endurance. And the heartIs a stone in which is enclosed,Like an insect, the dark loveOf a most unhappy land.I did not want to love so.That was not my design.I did not want to pity so.That was not my design.My pen is lighterThan a hummingbird's feather. This burdenIs too much for it to bear.How can I live in this countryWhere the foot knocks againstThe unburied bones of kin?I hear voices, see smiles. I cannotWrite anything; five handsSeize my pen and order me to writeThe story of their lives and deaths.Was I born to becomea ritual mourner?I want to sing of festivities,The greenwood into which ShakespeareOften took me. LeaveTo poets a moment of happiness,Otherwise your world will perish.It's madness to live without joyAnd to repeat to the deadWhose part was to be gladnessOf action in thought and in theOnly two salvaged words:Truth and justice.

You swore never to beA ritual mourner.You swore never to touchThe deep wounds of your nationSo you would not make them holyWith the accursed holiness that pursuesDescendants for many centuries.

What were the stain glass windows in the cathedrals considered?  Great art   Iconoclastic   The Bible for the poor   Design that allowed natural light

I met a traveller from an antique land,Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;And on the pedestal, these words appear:My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal Wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.”

The following text is from William Watson’s 1897 poem, “How Weary Is Our Heart.”Of kings and courts; of kingly, courtly waysIn which the life of man is bought and sold;How weary is our heart these many days!Of ceremonious embassies that holdParley with Hell in fine and silken phrase,How weary is our heart these many days!Of wavering counsellors neither hot nor cold,Whom from His mouth God speweth, be it toldHow weary is our heart these many days!5Mark for ReviewCross out answer choices you think are wrong.ABCWhich choice best states the main purpose of the text?ATo highlight the tiresome and monotonous nature of life in the midst of political power struggles and deceitful advisorsBTo express a sense of disillusionment with the superficiality and corruption of royal courts and diplomatic negotiationsCTo critique the excessive use of flowery language and empty promises in diplomatic discussionsDTo convey a deep longing for honest and decisive leaders who are driven by genuine convictions and value

"My heart grew sick - on account of the dampness of the catacombs. “This last comment is demonstrating some _________________ in Montresor's character.*angerremorsehappinessgreed