CTET Paper-I English: Questions 47 - 54 of 294
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And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form’d,
altogether changed, and yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only,
And forever, by day and night, I give back life to
my own origin, and make pure and beautiful it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering, Reck’d or unreck’d, duly with love returns. )
The poet Walt Whitman writes of a conversation he once had with the rain as it dropped gently from the heavens. ‘Who are you? ’ the poet asked. Strangely, the raindrops replied and the poet translates its answer for the readers.
The poem is written from the point of view of someone who asked the rain who it was and was answered, it saying “I am the poem of the earth”, then proceeding to tell how it comes from the Earth, only to return once againt to wash it and nourish it… that if it were not for the rain, seeds would remain seeds and not flower into their full potential… giving back life to its origin. Then, the poem’s “turn” uses this story as a segway to show how “song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfillment, wandering, Reck’d or unreck’d, duly with love returns. “
Meaning that songs come from the sould and after they’ve been heard, and thought good or bad, return with love. Just as rain rises and falls back again, so do poems, songs and other forms of beauty from the soul.
– Walt Whitman
Question number: 47 (2 of 6 Based on Passage) Show Passage
Question number: 48 (3 of 6 Based on Passage) Show Passage
Question number: 49 (4 of 6 Based on Passage) Show Passage
Question number: 50 (5 of 6 Based on Passage) Show Passage
Question number: 51 (6 of 6 Based on Passage) Show Passage
She lives in a garret
Up a haunted stair,
And even when she’s frightened
There’s nobody to care.
She cooks so small a dinner
She dines on the smell,
And even if she’s hungry
There’s nobody to tell.
She sweeps her musty lodging
As the dawn steals near,
And even when she’s crying
There’s nobody to hear.
I haven’t seen my neighbour
Since a long time ago,
And even if she’s dead
There’s nobody to know.
– Frances Park