THE BEAUTY OF BRITAIN J.B.Priestley
THE BEAUTY OF BRITAIN J. B. Priestley
DEPICTION OF ENGLAND Evoking an apparently common past and a common culture and mutually shared landscapes or landmarks is one of the ways in which a sense of national identity is promoted.In the discussion of Englishness-the sense of togetherness that binds all the people living in England,an idealized rural landscape depicted as a pastoral Eden is a recurring trope
DEPICTION OF ENGLAND Evoking an apparently common past and a common culture and mutually shared landscapes or landmarks is one of the ways in which a sense of national identity is promoted. In the discussion of Englishness—the sense of togetherness that binds all the people living in England, an idealized rural landscape depicted as a pastoral Eden is a recurring trope
For many writers in the beginning of the 20th century,"England"is virtually synonymous with "rural England":an England of patchwork fields, distant spires,village greens,warm beer and inter- class solidarity,Sunday roast-beef lunch and revitalizing teas
For many writers in the beginning of the 20 th century, “England” is virtually synonymous with “rural England”: an England of patchwork fields, distant spires, village greens, warm beer and inter- class solidarity, Sunday roast-beef lunch and revitalizing teas
ENGLAND (W.H.DAVIES) We have no grass locked up in ice so fast That cattle cut their faces and at last, When it is reached,must lie them down and starve, With bleeding mouths that freeze too hard to move. We have not that delirious state of cold That makes men warm and sing when in Death's hold
ENGLAND (W. H. DAVIES) We have no grass locked up in ice so fast That cattle cut their faces and at last, When it is reached, must lie them down and starve, With bleeding mouths that freeze too hard to move. We have not that delirious state of cold That makes men warm and sing when in Death’s hold
We have no roaring floods whose angry shocks Can kill the fishes dashed against their rocks. We have not winds that cut down street by street As easy as our scythes can cut down wheat No mountains here to spew their burning hearts Into the valleys,on our human parts. No earthquakes here,that ring church bells afar, A hundred miles from where those earthquakes are. We have no cause to set our dreading eyes, Like Arabs,on fresh streams in Paradise
We have no roaring floods whose angry shocks Can kill the fishes dashed against their rocks. We have not winds that cut down street by street As easy as our scythes can cut down wheat No mountains here to spew their burning hearts Into the valleys, on our human parts. No earthquakes here, that ring church bells afar, A hundred miles from where those earthquakes are. We have no cause to set our dreading eyes, Like Arabs, on fresh streams in Paradise