Which word in the sentence is a participle? Do not cry over burnt toast!
a. cry
b. burnt
c. Do
d. over

Which lines in this poem indicate that the poetic speaker refuses to be beguiled by love any longer? Farewell Love by Sir Thomas Wyatt Farewell, Love, and all thy laws for ever: Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more. Senec and Plato call me from thy lore, To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour. In blind error when I did persever, Thy sharp repulse, that wingspaneth aye so sore, Hath taught me to set in trifles no store, And scape forth, since liberty is lever. Therefore farewell, go trouble younger hearts, And in me claim no more authority; With idle youth go use thy property

What is the "miracle" in Bede's "Caedmon's Hymn"?a. Caedmon witnesses the birth of Christ.
b. Caedmon turns water into wine.
c. The abbess sees an apparition of the Virgin Mary.
d. Caedmon gets the gift of song and poetry.

What is the purpose of a literary analysis essay?A.to summarize a literary work
B.to review a literary work
C.to argue a personal interpretation of a literary work
D.to give a detailed description of a literary work

The ode and sonnet are common forms of what kind of poetry?

How is a motif different from a theme

The word “awaken” in the third paragraph most nearly meansA rise up
B stop sleeping
C generate art
D stir up
E incite anger



Read the following passage carefully before you choose your answers.

(The following is an excerpt from A Man of Letters as a Man of Business by
William Dean Howells.)

I think that every man ought to work for his living, without exception, and that when he has once avouched his willingness to work, society should provide him with work and warrant him a living. I do not think any man ought to live by an art. A man’s art should be his privilege, when he has proven his fitness to exercise it, and has otherwise earned his daily bread; and its results should be free to all. There is an instinctive sense of this, even in the midst of the grotesque confusion of our economic being; people feel that there is something profane, something impious, in taking money for a picture, or a poem, or a statue. Most of all, the artist himself feels this. He puts on a bold front with the world, to be sure, and brazens it out as business; but he knows very well that there is something false and vulgar in it; and that the work which cannot be truly priced in money cannot be truly paid in money.

He can, of course, say that the priest takes money for reading the marriage service, for christening the new-born babe, and for saying the last office for the dead; that the physician sells healing; that justice itself is paid for; and that he is merely a party to the thing that is and must be. He can say that, as the thing is, unless he sells his art he cannot live, that society will leave him to starve if he does not hit its fancy in a picture, or a poem, or a statue; and all this is bitterly true. He is, and he must be, only too glad if there is a market for his wares. Without a market for his wares he must perish, or turn to making something that will sell better than pictures, or poems, or statues. All the same, the sin and the shame remain, and the averted eye sees them still, with its inward vision. Many will make believe otherwise, but I would rather not make believe otherwise; and in trying to write of Literature as Business I am tempted to begin by saying that Business is the opprobrium of Literature.

Literature is at once the most intimate and the most articulate of the arts. It cannot impart its effect through the senses or the nerves as the other arts can; it is beautiful only through the intelligence; it is the mind speaking to the mind; until it has been put into absolute terms, of an invariable significance, it does not exist at all. It cannot awaken this emotion in one, and that in another; if it fails to express precisely the meaning of the author, it says nothing, and is nothing. So that when a poet has put his heart, much or little, into a poem, and sold it to a magazine, the scandal is greater than when a painter has sold a picture to a patron, or a sculptor has modeled a statue to order. These are artists less articulate and less intimate than the poet; they are more exterior to their work. They are less personally in it.

If it will serve to make my meaning a little clearer we will suppose that a poet has been crossed in love, or has suffered some real sorrow, like the loss of a wife or child. He pours out his broken heart in verse that shall bring tears of sacred sympathy from his readers, and an editor pays him a hundred dollars for the right of bringing his verse to their notice. It is perfectly true that the poem was not written for these dollars, but it is perfectly true that it was sold for them.

The poet must use his emotions to pay his bills; he has no other means. Society does not propose to pay his bills for him. Yet, and at the end of the ends, the unsophisticated witness finds the transaction ridiculous, finds it repulsive, finds it shabby. Somehow he knows that if our huckstering civilization did not at every moment violate the eternal fitness of things, the poet’s song would have been given to the world, and the poet would have been cared for by the whole human brotherhood, as any man should be who does the duty that every man owes it.