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Question 1 refers to the following poem.
WHY IS THE BOAT WHISTLING?Lost Desolate and loneAll night long on the lakeWhere fog trails and mist creeps,The whistle of a boat(5)Calls and cries unendingly,Like some lost childIn tears and troubleHunting the harbor’s breastAnd the harbor’s eyes. Carl Sandburg, "Lost," Chicago Poems, 1916
Questions 2 through 4 refer to the following poem.
HOW DOES RICHARD BONE FEEL ABOUT HIS WORK?Richard Bone When I first came to Spoon RiverI did not know whether what they told meWas true or false. They would bring me the epitaph(5)And stand around the shop while I workedAnd say "He was so kind," "He was wonderful,""She was the sweetest woman," "He was a consistent Christian." And I chiseled for them whatever they wished,All in ignorance of its truth.(10)But later, as I lived among the people here,I knew how near to the lifeWere the epitaphs that were ordered for them as they died. But still I chiseled whatever they paid me to chiselAnd made myself party to the false chronicles(15)Of the stones,Even as the historian does who writesWithout knowing the truth,Or because he is influenced to hide it. Edgar Lee Masters, "Richard Bone," Spoon River Anthology, 1915
Questions 5 through 7 refer to the following poem.
WHERE IS THE SPEAKER?I Years Had Been from Home I years had been from home,And now, before the door,I dared not open, lest a faceI never saw before (5)Stare vacant into mineAnd ask my business there.My business—just a life I left,Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve,(10)I scanned the windows near;The silence like an ocean rolled,And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laughThat I could fear a door,(15)Who danger and the dead had faced,But never quaked before. I fitted to the latchMy hand, with trembling care,Lest back the awful door should spring,(20)And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers offAs cautiously as glass,And held my ears, and like a thiefFled gasping from the house. Emily Dickinson, "I Years Had Been from Home," 1891
Questions 8 through 10 refer to the following poem.
HOW DO THE THREE PEOPLE AT TEA FEEL ABOUT EACH OTHER?At Tea The kettle descants in a cosy drone,And the young wife looks in her husband’s face,And then at her guest’s, and shows in her ownHer sense that she fills an envied place;(5)And the visiting lady is all abloom,And says there was never so sweet a room. And the happy young housewife does not knowThat the woman beside her was first his choice,Till the fates ordained it could not be so. . . .(10)Betraying nothing in look or voiceThe guest sits smiling and sips her tea,And he throws her a stray glance yearningly. Thomas Hardy, "At Tea," 1896