I might as well share the wealth

My comprehensive paper on Elizabeth Bishop is due Monday at 5 p.m. As I have learned from the dear Mrs. Stairet's class, I can pretty much write a 10-page paper of b.s. in less than 4 hours. Granted there are still some holes and I need to find some more secondary support, but overall I'm rather pleased with myself. Here is one of the poems I included in my in-depth analysis, from her collection Questions of Travel:


On the unbreathing sides of hills
they play, a specklike girl and boy,
alone, but near a specklike house.
The sun's suspended eye
blinks casually, and then they wade
gigantic waves of light and shade.
A dancing yellow spot, a pup,
attends them. Clouds are piling up;

a storm piles up behind the house.
The children play at digging holes.
The ground is hard; they try to use
one of their father's tools,
a mattock with a broken half
the two of them can scarcely lift.
It drops and clangs. Their laughter spreads
effulgence in the thunderheads,

weak flashes of inquiry
direct as is the puppy's bark.
But to their little, soluble,
unwarrantable ark,
apparantly the rain's reply
consists of echloalia,
and Mother's voice, ugly as sin,
keeps calling to them to come in.

Children, the threshold of the storm
has slid beneath your muddy shoes;
wet and beguiled, you stand among
the mansions you may choose
out of a bigger house than yours,
whose lawfulness endures.
Its soggy documents retain
your rights in rooms of falling rain.