Fireside speaks of today's political issues. It also wants you to see it in a more personal, less trivial context. This is despite the fact that it has more of a conventional writing style. Rhythm (for their memorization), morality, and the aspect of the American Life (yes these poets are American) are all essential to this form. The poets in this genre are actually the first American poets to rival Brittain's: the people Henry Wadsworth Longefellow, Henry Whittier, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., James Russell Lowell, and William Cullen Bryant (the first 5 fireside poets) to be exact. Their poems were recited at the fireside (see the pun) of every household and these were surprisingly the only poets to be apart of this group of poetry. Their poems made everyone feel safe and comfortable among their American homes and also aware of what was going on. Since these poets are also dead, I should be making this in the past tense. But these poems are still relevant today (and are only pro-American...or relative to America's roots).
Feel free to look the poem up yourself. Oh, look, I gave you a link (It's a long poem!).
This beautiful poem by John Greenleaf Whittier gives me chills. (he, he. I just noitced. A pun) But this snowstorm that is happening is quite horrific though he is describing it in a nostalgic light. Most of the time during this time period, people's fingers would be freezing off and gloves, no matter how much thicker, wouldn't help. This is because the inside of your house was an icebox.
The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
Who would compare "rose", something that just happened, normally, with maybe struggled to the surface, or cracked through, or pierced the gray sky, or...something more violent? The sun literally has to fight to be seen during the winter, and he said it just...rose, y'know. Over hills of gray...even though he describes the hills as gray, he still said hills, as if this were perhaps just an alternate summer day.
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
It beat with low rhythm, he said, and had a strong pulse, kind of like a live, warmer thing. This is the frigid winter air he's taking in it's beauty, not rushing to get home, not talking about how terrible it is. It's cold, but it's like walking in the rain. It's pleasant.
The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
Who would compare "rose", something that just happened, normally, with maybe struggled to the surface, or cracked through, or pierced the gray sky, or...something more violent? The sun literally has to fight to be seen during the winter, and he said it just...rose, y'know. Over hills of gray...even though he describes the hills as gray, he still said hills, as if this were perhaps just an alternate summer day.
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
It beat with low rhythm, he said, and had a strong pulse, kind of like a live, warmer thing. This is the frigid winter air he's taking in it's beauty, not rushing to get home, not talking about how terrible it is. It's cold, but it's like walking in the rain. It's pleasant.
And whirl–dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,
Crossed and recrossed the wingàd snow:
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window–frame,
And through the glass the clothes–line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
It's sweet, but also bittersweet. The posts were looking in like ghosts. This could be taken in a mockery sort of sense, or in a more serious sense of "Man, that'll be us if we stay out there and freeze." But the use of a "white drift piled" and "whirl-dance" indicate he's describing the storm as less threatening than it really is. It's more like a playful thing, now.
Some other things he says include "glistening wonder" "old familiar sights of ours Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn–crib stood, Or garden–wall, or belt of wood;" "We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal: we had read Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave," which support his playful view on the storm. This writer wanted to let everyone know his experience in the kind storm he grew up in, and to let everyone know some of the desirable qualities of it. This is along with the fact that it sucked to shovel all that snow that came afterwards.
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,
Crossed and recrossed the wingàd snow:
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window–frame,
And through the glass the clothes–line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
It's sweet, but also bittersweet. The posts were looking in like ghosts. This could be taken in a mockery sort of sense, or in a more serious sense of "Man, that'll be us if we stay out there and freeze." But the use of a "white drift piled" and "whirl-dance" indicate he's describing the storm as less threatening than it really is. It's more like a playful thing, now.
Some other things he says include "glistening wonder" "old familiar sights of ours Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn–crib stood, Or garden–wall, or belt of wood;" "We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made A tunnel walled and overlaid With dazzling crystal: we had read Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave," which support his playful view on the storm. This writer wanted to let everyone know his experience in the kind storm he grew up in, and to let everyone know some of the desirable qualities of it. This is along with the fact that it sucked to shovel all that snow that came afterwards.