Poetry Anthology ... English Literature Poetry Anthology The Pearson Edexcel GCSE (9-1) English Literature

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    Poetry Anthology

    The Pearson Edexcel GCSE (9-1) English Literature Poetry Anthology should be used to prepare for Component 2 of your assessment

  • Pearson Edexcel GCSE (9-1) English Literature Poetry Anthology

    The Pearson Edexcel GCSE (9-1) English Literature Poetry Anthology should be used to prepare students for assessment in: Component 2 (1ET0/02) of the Pearson Edexcel Level 1/Level 2 GCSE (9-1) in English Literature (1ET0)

  • Published by Pearson Education Limited, a company incorporated in England and Wales, having its registered office at Edinburgh Gate, Harlow, Essex, CM20 2JE. Registered company number: 872828

    Edexcel is a registered trade mark of Edexcel Limited

    © Pearson Education Limited 2014

    First published 2014

    17 16 15 14

    10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

    British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

    A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

    ISBN 9781446913451

    Copyright notice

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    Printed in the UK by ESP Colour

    See page 60 for acknowledgements.

  • Collection A: Relationships 5

    Collection B: Conflict 23

    Collection C: Time and Place 41


  • Collection A

    La Belle Dame Sans Merci (1819) 6 John Keats A Child to his Sick Grandfather (1790) 7 Joanna Baillie She Walks in Beauty (1814) 8 Lord Byron A Complaint (1807) 9 William Wordsworth Neutral Tones (1898) 10 Thomas Hardy Sonnet 43 (1850) 11 Elizabeth Barrett Browning My Last Duchess (1842) 12 Robert Browning 1st Date – She and 1st Date – He (2011) 14 Wendy Cope

    Valentine (1993) 15 Carol Ann Du� y One Flesh (1966) 16 Elizabeth Jennings i wanna be yours (1983) 17 John Cooper Clarke Love’s Dog (2008) 18 Jen Hadfi eld Nettles (1980) 19 Vernon Scannell The Manhunt (2008) 20 Simon Armitage My Father Would Not Show Us (1988) 21 Ingrid de Kok


  • 666

    La Belle Dame Sans Merci

    O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

    Alone and palely loitering?

    The sedge has withered from the lake,

    And no birds sing.

    5 O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

    So haggard and so woe-begone?

    The squirrel’s granary is full,

    And the harvest’s done.

    I see a lily on thy brow,

    10 With anguish moist and fever-dew,

    And on thy cheek a fading rose

    Fast withereth too.

    I met a lady in the meads,

    Full beautiful – a faery’s child,

    15 Her hair was long, her foot was light,

    And her eyes were wild.

    I made a garland for her head,

    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

    She looked at me as she did love,

    20 And made sweet moan.

    I set her on my pacing steed,

    And nothing else saw all day long,

    For sidelong would she bend, and sing

    A faery’s song.

    25 She found me roots of relish sweet,

    And honey wild, and manna-dew,

    And sure in language strange she said –

    ‘I love thee true’.

    She took me to her elfi n grot,

    30 And there she wept and sighed full sore,

    And there I shut her wild wild eyes

    With kisses four.

    And there she lulled me asleep

    And there I dreamed – Ah! woe betide! –

    35 The latest dream I ever dreamt

    On the cold hill side.

    I saw pale kings, and princes too,

    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

    They cried – ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

    40 Thee hath in thrall!’

    I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

    With horrid warning gapèd wide,

    And I awoke and found me here,

    On the cold hill’s side.

    45 And this is why I sojourn here

    Alone and palely loitering,

    Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

    And no birds sing.

    John Keats


  • Collection A

    A Child to his Sick Grandfather

    Grand-dad, they say you’re old and frail,

    Your stocked legs begin to fail:

    Your knobbed stick (that was my horse)

    Can scarce support your bended corse,

    5 While back to wall, you lean so sad,

    I’m vexed to see you, dad.

    You used to smile and stroke my head,

    And tell me how good children did;

    But now, I wot not how it be,

    10 You take me seldom on your knee,

    Yet ne’ertheless I am right glad,

    To sit beside you, dad.

    How lank and thin your beard hangs down!

    Scant are the white hairs on your crown;

    15 How wan and hollow are your cheeks!

    Your brow is rough with crossing breaks;

    But yet, for all his strength be fl ed,

    I love my own old dad.

    The housewives round their potions brew,

    20 And gossips come to ask for you;

    And for your weal each neighbour cares,

    And good men kneel, and say their prayers;

    And everybody looks so sad,

    When you are ailing, dad.

    25 You will not die and leave us then?

    Rouse up and be our dad again.

    When you are quiet and laid in bed,

    We’ll doff our shoes and softly tread;

    And when you wake we’ll aye be near

    30 To fi ll old dad his cheer.

    When through the house you shift your stand,

    I’ll lead you kindly by the hand;

    When dinner’s set I’ll with you bide,

    And aye be serving at your side;

    35 And when the weary fi re turns blue,

    I’ll sit and talk with you.

    I have a tale both long and good,

    About a partlet and her brood,

    And cunning greedy fox that stole

    40 By dead of midnight through a hole,

    Which slyly to the hen-roost led –

    You love a story, dad?

    And then I have a wondrous tale

    Of men all clad in coats of mail,

    45 With glittering swords – you nod, I think?

    Your fi xed eyes begin to wink;

    Down on your bosom sinks your head –

    You do not hear me, dad.

    Joanna Baillie


  • 888888

    She Walks in Beauty

    She walks in beauty, like the night

    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

    And all that’s best of dark and bright

    Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

    5 Thus mellow’d to that tender light

    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

    One shade the more, one ray the less,

    Had half impair’d the nameless grace

    Which waves in every raven tress,

    10 Or softly lightens o’er her face;

    Where thoughts serenely sweet express

    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

    And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

    15 The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

    But tell of days in goodness spent,

    A mind at peace with all below,

    A heart whose love is innocent!

    Lord Byron


  • Collection A


    A Complaint

    There is a change—and I am poor;

    Your love hath been, nor long ago,

    A fountain at my fond heart’s door,

    Whose only business was to fl ow;

    5 And fl ow it did; not taking heed

    Of its own bounty, or my need.

    What happy moments did I count!

    Blest was I then all bliss above!

    Now, for that consecrated fount

    10 Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,

    What have I? shall I dare to tell?

    A comfortless and hidden well.

    A well of love—it may be deep—

    I trust it is,—and never dry:

    15 What matter? if the waters sleep

    In silence and obscurity.

    —Such change, and at the very door

    Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

    William Wordsworth


  • 10

    Neutral Tones

    We stood by a pond that winter day,

    And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,

    And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;

    – They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

    5 Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove

    Over tedious riddles of years ago;

    And some words played between us to and fro

    On which lost the more by our love.

    The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing

    10 Alive enough to have strength to die;

    And a grin of bitterness swept thereby

    Like an ominous bird a-wing…

    Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,

    And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me

    15 Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,

    And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

    Thomas Hardy