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In honor of National Poetry Month, which is celebrated every April, we will analyze an 1895 poem written by a woman while putting the poem in its historical context. Huzzah! I know you’re excited. Here is what you’ll do. Read the poem below TWICE: once for basic understanding and then again slowly to really savor the words. Make sure you’ve completed the reading/watching posted in Module 10 so you can learn about Stoddard before you begin analyzing her work. You’ll cut-and-paste the poem below into a Word document, then you’ll contextualize and analyze it line-by-line. I’ve demonstrated using the first line. You would do this for every line of the poem. Be specific, cite when necessary, and, to put it bluntly, drop knowledge. Don’t be vague or oversimplify. Provide supporting evidence and analysis throughout your essay. Allow her words to open a portal that gives us a window into what it was like to be a woman–a middle-class, educated white woman who knew grief and loss–during this time. GRADING A passing-credit response will be a thorough response with specific and cited historical details from all assigned resources (e.g., As found on page 303 of A History of US Feminisms by Rory Dicker, it’s clear that XYZ.) The answer will thoroughly address the question above with specific historical content. Remember to write in complete sentences with proper writing mechanics. You should have Grammarly installed to help correct your work as you write. Nameless Pain BY ELIZABETH DREW BARSTOW STODDARD Links to an external site. I should be happy with my lot: She is feeling… In the late 19th century, it was expected that women XYZ (Dicker, 55)… A wife and mother – is it not Enough for me to be content? What other blessing could be sent? A quiet house, and homely ways, That make each day like other days; I only see Time’s shadow now Darken the hair on baby’s brow! No world’s work ever comes to me, No beggar brings his misery; I have no power, no healing art With bruised soul or broken heart. I read the poets of the age, ’Tis lotus-eating in a cage; I study Art, but Art is dead To one who clamors to be fed With milk from Nature’s rugged breast, Who longs for Labor’s lusty rest. O foolish wish! I still should pine If any other lot were mine.
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