This is my first post on the forum. It isn't a question, but the poem that got me to like writing, poetry, literature and finally the very beauty of the english language.

Full Moon and Little Frieda

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -

And you listening.

A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.

A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror

To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm wreaths of breath -

A dark river of blood, many boulders,

Balancing unspilled milk.

'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work

That points at him amazed.

Ted Hughes

The fifth line is my favourite, and of course the last. Tell me what you think about the poem in general, and the essence of it. And remember, there is no ONE or CORRECT interpretation! So simply give me YOUR'S.

Emotion: big smile cheers!

I like it very much - it is quite romantic, but not sublime or sentimental, it touches all the senses, and paints a beautiful picture of a moment arrested in time.

Thanks for posting it.
Like it
Students: Are you brave enough to let our tutors analyse your pronunciation?
It is beautiful tiny dancer. You should read the poem, Daffodils by William Wordsworth.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

I conclude that Frieda is a ghost.