Dr. A.P.J. Abdul kalam

International Conference on "English Language & Literature: Retrospect and Prospects" - SELLTA and Bishop Heber College (Autonomous), Tiruchirappalli

04,05-02-2016 

Greetings!
         Southasian English Language & Literature Teachers Association [SELLTA] in collaboration with Bishop Heber College (Autonomous), Tiruchirappalli, TN organises an International Conference on "English Language & Literature: Retrospect and Prospects" during 04 & 05 February 2016.

*Selected Papers will be published in a Book with ISBN*
*Quality Papers will be published in a reputed International Journal with ISSN*

*Kindly mention this blog in your communication*

*Dates to Remember*
Ø  Submission of Abstract     : 02-12-2015
Ø  Submission of Full Paper   : 02-01-2016
Ø  Early Bird Registration      : 02-01-2016
Ø  Date of the Conference      : 04,05-02-2016

*Registration Fee Details:*
Early Bird Registration [On or Before 02-01-2016]
Ø  Presentation - Faculty [Abroad]     : USD 50
Ø  Presentation - Faculty [Indian]       : INR 2000
Ø  Presentation - Students [Abroad]   : USD 30
Ø  Presentation - Students [Indian]     : INR 1000
Ø  Participation - Faculty                    : INR 1000
Ø  Participation - Students                   : INR 500

Late Registration [After 02-01-2016]
Ø  Presentation - Faculty [Abroad]      : USD 60
Ø  Presentation - Faculty [Indian]        : INR 2500
Ø  Presentation - Students [Abroad]    : USD 35
Ø  Presentation - Students [Indian]      : INR 1500
Ø  Participation - Faculty                     : INR 1500
Ø  Participation - Students                   : INR 750

*Contact:*
Ø Dr. K. Premkumar
        (+91)9843752304
        sellta.conference@gmail.com
        http://mathurameducationaltrust.com/sellta.html

Love in a Life

by Robert Browning

Room after room,

I hunt the house through

We inhabit together.

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her―

Next time, herself!―not the trouble behind her

Left in the curtain, the couch’s perfume!

As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew :

Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.

Yet the day wears,

And door succeeds door;

I try the fresh fortune―

Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.

Still the same chance! She goes out as I enter.

Spend my whole day in the quest,―who cares?

But ’tis twilight, you see,―with such suites to explore,

Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

Confessions

by Robert Browning

What is he buzzing in my ears?

‘Now that I come to die,

Do I view the world as a vale of tears?’

Ah, reverend sir, not I!

What I viewed there once, what I view again

Where the physic bottles stand

On the table’s edge,―is a suburb lane,

With a wall to my bedside hand.

That land sloped, much as the bottles do,

From a house you could descry

O’er the garden-wall : is the curtain blue

Or green to a healthy eye?

To mine, it serves for the old June weather

Blue above lane and wall;

And that farthest bottle labeled ‘Ether’

Is the house o’ertopping all.

At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,

There watched for me, one June,

A girl : I know, sir, it’s improper,

My poor mind’s out of tune.

Only, there was a way . . . you crept

Close by the side, to dodge

Eyes in the house, two eyes except :

They styled their house ‘The Lodge.’

What right had a lounger up their lane?

But, by creeping very close,

With the good wall’s help,―their eyes might strain

And stretch themselves to Oes,

Yet never catch her and me together,

As she left the attic, there,

By the rim of the bottle labeled ‘Ether’,

And stole from stair to stair,

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,

We loved, sir―used to meet :

How sad and bad and mad it was―

But then, how it was sweet!

The Tyger

by William Blake

Tyger ! Tyger ! Burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry ?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes ?

On what wings dare he aspire ?

What the hand dare sieze the fire ?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart ?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet ?

What the hammer, what the chain ?

In what furnace was thy brain ?

What the anvil, what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp ?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water'd heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see ?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee ?

Tyger ! Tyger ! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ?

London

by William Blake

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,

Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,

In every Infant’s cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry

Every black’ning Church appalls ;

And the hapless Soldier’s sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlot’s curse

Blasts the new-born Infant’s tear,

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

What is Life?

by John Clare

And what is Life ? an hour-glass on the run

A mist retreating from the morning sun

A busy bustling still repeated dream

Its length ? A moment’s pause, a moment’s thought

And happiness ? A bubble on the stream

That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought

Vain hopes—what are they ? Puffing gales of morn

That of its charms divests the dewy lawn

And robs each flowret of its gem and dies

A cobweb hiding disappointments thorn

Which stings more keenly thro’ the thin disguise

And thou, O trouble ? Nothing can suppose,

And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows,

What need requireth thee.

So free and lib’ral as thy bounty flows,

Some necessary cause must surely be.

And what is death ? Is still the cause unfound

The dark mysterious name of horrid sound

A long and ling’ring sleep the weary crave—

And peace—where can its happiness abound ?

No where at all but Heaven and the grave

Then what is Life ? When stript of its disguise

A thing to be desir’d it cannot be

Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes

Gives proof sufficient of its vanity

’Tis but a trial all must undergo

To teach unthankful mortals how to prize

That happiness vain man’s denied to know

Untill he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.

I Am

by John Clare

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,

My friends forsake me like a memory lost;

I am the self-consumer of my woes,

They rise and vanish in oblivious host,

Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;

And yet I am, and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,

Into the living sea of waking dreams,

Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,

But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

And e'en the dearest - that I loved the best -

Are strange - nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod,

A place where woman never smiled or wept;

There to abide with my Creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie,

The grass below - above the vaulted sky.

To the Evening Star

by Thomas Campbell

Gem of the crimson-colour’d Even,

Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of heaven,

Beloved Star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns

When soft the tear of twilight flows;

So due thy plighted love returns

To chambers brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love

So kind a star thou seem’st to be,

Sure some enamour’d orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee!

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour

When all unheavenly passions fly,

Chased by the soul-subduing power

Of Love’s delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day

Queen of propitious stars, appear,

And early rise, and long delay.

When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort

Whose trees the sunward summit crown,

And wanton flowers, that well may court

An angel’s feet to tread them down:—

Shine on her sweetly scented road

Thou star of evening’s purple dome,

That lead’st the nightingale abroad,

And guid’st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my charmer’s sweeter breath

Embalms the soft exhaling dew,

Where dying winds a sigh bequeath

To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:—

Where, winnow’d by the gentle air,

Her silken tresses darkly flow

And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day’s decline

In converse sweet to wander far—

O bring with thee my Caroline,

And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

A Red, Red Rose

by Robert Burns

My love is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June :

My love is like the melody

That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I :

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun :

And I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love,

And fare thee weel a while !

And I will come again, my love,

Thou’ it were ten thousand mile.

The Lost Leader

by Robert Browning

Just for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a riband to stick in his coat –

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,

Lost all the others she lets us devote;

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,

So much was theirs who so little allowed:

How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags – were they purple, his heart had been proud!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,

Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley, were with us – they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

– He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering – not through his presence;

Songs may inspirit us, – not from his lyre;

Deeds will be done, – while he boasts his quiescence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,

One more devils’-triumph and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Life’s night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,

Forced praise on our part – the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him – strike gallantly,

Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

'I cannot live with You'

by Emily Dickinson

I cannot live with You -

It would be Life -

And Life is over there -

Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to -

Putting up

Our Life – His porcelain -

Like a Cup -

Discarded of the Housewife -

Quaint – or Broke -

A newer Sevres pleases -

Old Ones crack -

I could not die- with You -

For One must wait

To shut the Other’s Gaze down -

You – could not -

And I – Could I stand by

And see You – freeze -

Without my Right of Frost -

Death’s privilege?

Nor could I rise – with You -

Because Your Face

Would put out Jesus’ -

That New Grace

Glow plain – and foreign

On my homesick Eye -

Except that You than He

Shone closer by -

They’d judge Us – How -

For You – served Heaven – You know,

Or sought to -

I could not -

Because You saturated Sight -

And I had not more Eyes

For sordid excellence

As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be -

Though My Name

Rang loudest

On the Heavenly fame -

And were You – saved -

And I – condemned to be

Where You were not -

That self – were Hell to Me -

So We must meet apart -

You there – I – here -

With just the Door ajar

That Oceans are – and Prayer -

And that White Sustenance -

Despair -

Kubla Khan

Past, Present, Future

by Emily Brontë

Tell me, tell me, smiling child,

What the past is like to thee ?

'An Autumn evening soft and mild

With a wind that sighs mournfully.’

Tell me, what is the present hour ?

'A green and flowery spray

Where a young bird sits gathering its power

To mount and fly away.’

And what is the future, happy one ?

'A sea beneath a cloudless sun ;

A mighty, glorious, dazzling sea

Stretching into infinity.’

Spring

 by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring—

When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush ;

Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing ;

The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush

The descending blue ; that blue is all in a rush

With richness ; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy ?

A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy,

Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,

Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

The Death Bed

by Thomas Hood

We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

But when the morn came dim and sad

And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed―she had

Another morn than ours.

Love

by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

If I lacked anything.

'A guest', I answered, 'worthy to be here.'

Love said, 'You shall be he.'

'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,

I cannot look at thee.'

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth, Lord, but I have marred them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.'

'And know you not', says Love, 'who bore the blame?'

'My dear, then I will serve.'

'You must sit down', says Love, 'and taste my meat.'

So I did sit and eat.

The Dead Man Walking

by Thomas Hardy

They hail me as one living,

But don’t they know

That I have died of late years,

Untombed although ?

I am but a shape that stands here,

A pulseless mould,

A pale past picture, screening

Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute’s warning,

Not in a loud hour,

For me ceased Time’s enchantments

In hall and bower.

There was no tragic transit,

No catch of breath,

When silent seasons inched me

On to this death. . . .

―A Troubadour-youth I rambled

With Life for lyre,

The beats of being raging

In me like fire.

But when I practiced eyeing

The goal of men,

It iced me, and I perished

A little then.

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,

Through the Last Door,

And left me standing bleakly,

I died yet more ;

And when my Love’s heart kindled

In hate of me,

Wherefore I knew not, died I

One more degree.

And if when I died fully

I cannot say,

And changed into the corpse-thing

I am today,

Yet is it that, though whiling

The time somehow

In walking, talking, smiling,

I live not now.

The Anniversary

by John Donne

All Kings, and all their favourites,

All glory of honours, beauties, wits,

The sun itself, which makes times, as they pass,

Is elder by a year now than it was

When thou and I first one another saw :

All other things to their destruction draw,

Only our love hath no decay;

This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,

Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

Two graves must hide thine and my corse;

If one might, death were no divorce.

Alas, as well as other Princes, we

(Who Prince enough in one another be)

Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears,

Oft fed with true oaths, and with sweet salt tears;

But souls where nothing dwells but love

(All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove

This, or a love increasèd there above,

When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove.

And then we shall be throughly blest;

But we no more than all the rest.

Here upon earth we're Kings, and none but we

Can be such Kings, nor of such objects be;

Who is so safe as we? where none can do

Treason to us, except one of us two.

True and false fears let us refrain,

Let us love nobly, and live, and add again

Years and years unto years, till we attain

To write threescore: this is the second of our reign.

The Sun Rising

by John Donne

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windows and through curtains call on us ?

Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run ?

Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

Late school-boys, and sour ’prentices,

Go tell court-huntsmen that the King will ride,

Call country ants to harvest offices ;

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong

Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would not lose her sight so long :

If her eyes have not blinded thine,

Look, and tomorrow late tell me,

Whether both the Indias of spice and mine

Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.

Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday

And thou shalt hear, ‘All here in one bed lay.’

She’s all States, and all Princes I ;

Nothing else is.

Princes do play us ; compared to this,

All honour’s mimic ; all wealth alchemy.

Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,

In that the world’s contracted thus ;

Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;

This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

 

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

Success is counted sweetest (112)

By Emily Dickinson

 

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne'er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host

Who took the Flag today

Can tell the definition

So clear of victory

As he defeated – dying –

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph

Burst agonized and clear!

International Conference on Canadian Studies

27, 28 & 29-01-2016 - International Conference on Canadian Studies - Karunya University, Coimbatore

Greetings!
The School of Science and Humanities, Karunya University, Coimbatore, TN, in collaboration with Indian Association for Canadian Studies organises an International Conference on Canadian Studies: Theory & Practice during 27 - 29 January 2016.

*Selected papers will be published either in journal / edited book as per the decision of the review committee.*

*Find enclosed the copy of the Brochure*

*Kindly mention this blog in your communication*

*Dates to Remember*
Ø  Submission of Papers        : 30-10-2015
Ø  Intimation of Acceptance   : 20-11-2015
Ø  Registration fee payment   : 10-12-2015
Ø  Date of the Conference      : 27, 28 & 29-01-2016

*Registration Fee Details:*
Ø  Foreign Delegates                                     : US $ 250.00
Ø  Life members of IACS                             : Rs.1000/-
Ø  Participants from Industry                        : Rs.3000/-
Ø  Participants from Academic Institutions  : Rs.2000/-
Ø  Research Scholars / Students                    : Rs.1000/-
Ø  Participation Only                                     : Rs.750/-

*Contact:*
Ø Dr. J. Sundarsingh
      +919487846608
      canadianstudies@karunya.edu

National Seminar on Commonwealth

01-10-2015 - National Seminar on Commonwealth- Sri S. Ramasamy Naidu Memorial College, Sattur http://kkseminars.blogspot.in/

Greetings!
       Department of English, Sri S. Ramasamy Naidu Memorial College, Sattur, TN organises a National Seminar on "Trends in Commonwealth Literature" on 01 November 2015.

*Select Papers will be published in a book with ISBN*

*Find enclosed the copy of the Brochure*

*Kindly mention this blog in your communication*

*Dates to Remember*
Ø  Submission of Registration Form, Full Paper and DD : 21-09-2015
Ø  Date of the Conference                                                 : 01-10-2015

*Registration Fee Details:*
Ø  Presentation & Publication : Rs. 1000/-
Ø  Presentation - Faculty         : Rs. 500/-
Ø  Presentation - Students       : Rs. 300/-
Ø  Participation                        : Rs. 200/-

*Contact:*
Ø Ms. R. Sumathi
      +919750968619
      nlseminar2015@gmail.com

freedom fighters of India

The Unnamed Lake

It sleeps among the thousand hills
     Where no man ever trod,

And only nature's music fills

      The silences of God.

Great mountains tower above its shore,

      Green rushes fringe its brim,

And o'er its breast for evermore

      The wanton breezes skim.

Dark clouds that intercept the sun

     Go there in spring to weep,

And there, when autumn days are done,

     White mists lie down to sleep.

Sunrise and sunset crown with gold

     The peaks of ageless stone,

Where winds have thundered from of old

     And storms have set their throne.

No echoes of the world afar

     Disturb it night or day,

The sun and shadow, moon and star

     Pass and re pass for aye.

'Twas in the grey of early dawn,

     When first the lake we spied,

And fragments of a cloud were drawn

     Half down the mountain side.

Along the shore a heron flew,

     And from a speck on high,

That hovered in the deepening blue,

     We heard the fish-hawk's cry.

Among the cloud-capt solitudes,

     No sound the silence broke,

Save when, in whispers down the woods,

     The guardian mountains spoke.

Through tangled brush and dewy brake,

     Returning whence we came,

We passed in silence, and the lake

     We left without a name.