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Ladies and gentlemen, University Extension, the University of Delaware presents Robert Hill, you're American poet. This time I shall begin

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to Elizabethan lyrics. The first one I think has never been surpassed for Xia lyrical music. It's in John downs,

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third and last book as weep, you know, ma sad fountains. What need you flow so fast. Look how the snowy mountains

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have been sanded gently waste. But my son's heavenly eye's view, not your weeping. That now allies sleeping softly.

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Now softly lies. Sleeping. Sleep is a reconciling. A rest that piece begets. That's not the sunrise,

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smiling on fairly evenly sets residue, then rest. Sad eyes, melt not and weeping while she lives sleeping softly.

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Now softly lines sleeping. The second to these poems is a pastoral dialogue. And of course, the pastoral was

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a favorite convention with the Elizabethan. And it goes this way. Fair and fair and why so fair is fair is and it may be

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the fairest shepherd on our green allow for annihilating fair and fair advices. Fairs, fairs, and he may be, thy love is fair for

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the Alone and Fano other lighting. My love is fam, I love as gay as fresh has been flowers and my, and my love, my round delay, my merry men,

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a rounded, I conclude the Cupid's kiss. They do change all. Love, fun. You pray, God's, they changed. For worse.

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They do change. Oh, love for new. Pray God's, they change forwards. I love compile. My love can sing,

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love CAN many are pretty thing. And a very lovely praises ring by Mary, Mary, Mary round delay men to Cupid's kids. They do change or love on you.

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Pray God's, they changed for worse. And now we make an abrupt shift to the Victorian Age. And to Matthew Arnold's

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great stoic or poem, Dover Beach. The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full. The moon eyes fair upon

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straights and the French coast. The light leaves and is gone. The cliffs of England stand glimmering and vast out in the trend.

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Kobe, come to the window. Sweet is denied air only from the long line of spray where the sea meets

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the moon, lands, land. Listen. You hear the grading roar of pebbles, which the waves draw back and fling at their return up the high strand,

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begin and cease. And then again begin with tremolo, cadence, slow, and bring the ten on out. Sadness in.

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Sophocles long ago headed on a gene. And it brought him to his mind. The turbid ebb and flow of human misery. We find also in the sound the thought,

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hearing it by this distance, Northern sea. The sea of faith was once too at the FO and round is Shaw lay like the folds of a bright girl.

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But now I only hear it's melancholy, long withdrawing, raw, retreating to the breath of the night when down

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the vast edges and naked shingles of the world. Let us be true to one another. For the world seems to live for

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us like a land of dreams. So variance, so beautiful, so new. At Relay. Neither joy, no love,

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no light, no acidity, you know, peace. Now I'll help for pain. And we are here is on a dark thing, plane swept with confused alarms

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of struggle and flight, where Ignorant Armies crash. By night. Following that. And again, in contrast,

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read to Robert Frost's best-known lyrics. Frost is a more cheerful poet than on all philosophically. And he is one who loves the,

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it's the best place for love. He says. First we take the Road Not Taken. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. And sorry, I could not travel

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both and be one traveler long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth.

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Then took the other as just as fair and having perhaps the better claim because it was grassy and wanted wear.

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Now as for that, the passing there had won them really about the same. In both that morning. Equally lay in leaves,

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no step had trodden black. I kept the first for another day. Yet knowing how way leads onto way. I doubted if I should ever come back.

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I shall be telling this with the sigh. Somewhere, ages and ages. Hence, two roads diverged in a wood. And I, I took the one less traveled by.

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And that has made all the difference. Next, I will read Robert Frost, perhaps most famously, stopping onwards, bad Snowy Evening.

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Whose words these are? I think I know his house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping

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here to watch his woods fill up with snow. My little Haas must think it where to stop without a farmhouse. Now, between the words and frozen lake,

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the darkest evening of the year, he gives his harness bells a shake to ask if there is a mistake. The only other sounds,

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a sweep of these, a wind and down a flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep,

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and miles to go before I sleep. Now we'll turn to another well-known poem, one of the great classics. It is an ODE in stanzas.

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And you know it well, are they out to the West when of Percy Bysshe Shelley? Or wild west wind,

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breadth of items being thou for mu's unseen presence, the leaves dead, driven like ghosts from an enchanted fleeing yellow

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and black and pale and hectic red, pestilent, stricken multitudes, although Recherche to that dark wintry bed doing and seeds where they lie cold and low.

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Each like a cop's within its grade. Until thine. Sister of the spring, Joe Blow, Clarion, all the dreaming and fill,

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driving sweet bads like flux to feed in and with living Hughes and odors, plane and Hill. Wild spirit which aren't moving everywhere.

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The stria and preserve. The Alon who stream mid the steeps, guys, commotion, loose clouds like a decaying leaves at shed.

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Chuck from the tangled vows of have an ocean. Angels of rain and lightning. There are spread on the blue surface of than air.

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I said, like the bright hair up lifted from the head of some fears may not, even from the dim the edge of

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the horizon to the zenith its height. The lux of the approaching storm. Now dead or the dying at which this closing night will be the download.

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A vast set plicae vaulted with all congregated might vapors from whose solid atmosphere, black rain and fire and hail the O'Hare.

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Thou who did Dweck and some are dreams, the blue and in where he lay low but the coil of his crystalline streams beside

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a pumice island by as bay. And so Ansley, old palaces and towns quivering with them. The waves intense a day,

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all overgrown with Azure mouse and flowers, so sweet, the sense veins picturing them. Thou for whose path the Atlantic's level powers

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cleave themselves into chasms. Wow, fall below the sea blooms. And the Oozie words which where the SAT plus foliage of the ocean, no device.

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And suddenly grow gray with fair and tremble. And the spiral themselves. Oh, here. If I were a dead leaf,

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thou mightiest ban a virus with Cloud to fly with the, a way to pant beneath thy power and share the impulse of

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strength only less free than thou and uncontrollable if even I was in my boyhood and could be the comrade of

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thy wanderings of a heaven. As them. When to outstrip dies, sky speed see scarce seem division.

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I would now have striven as dots within prayer in my SAW, need. A lift me as a way, a leaf, a cloud.

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I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed. I have a weight of ours has changed and valid one to like the tameness and swift and proud.

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Make me thy law. Even as the forest is. What if my leaves aren't falling like its own to melded?

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I'm mighty hominids. We'll take from both a deep autumnal town. Sweet sadness. The thou spirit fears. My spirit.

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Be thou me and impetuous one, drive from my dead thoughts over the universe. Like whether it leaves

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too quick and a new bird. And by the incantation of this, this scatter as from an annexed anguished Han, ashes ans box.

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My words, a man among mankind, be through my lips to awaken to the trumpet of a prophesying a line. If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

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Ode is almost proverbial of cos. And I shall again, and with a short poem with a minor music compared to challenge.

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That in comparable in its way. Parents to daffodils. Daffodils. We wait to see you hasty way so soon.

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As yet the rising sun has not attained his noon. Stay, stay until a sting day has run, but even so on.

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And having prayed together, we will go with you alone. We have short time these days you, we have a shorter spring as quick and

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grow to meet decay as you or anything. We die as your eyes do and dry away. Like to the summons rain or as the pails of mornings

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do, Natalie found again?