Особенности функционирования стилистических фонетических приемов в поэзии (на примере анг.яз.)

Оглавление
Введение 3
Глава 1. Стилистические приемы в поэзии 5
1.1. Поэзия: основная характеристика 5
1.2. Стилистические приемы в поэзии 7
1.3. Особенности англоязычной поэзии 10
Глава 2. Функционирование стилистических фонетических приемов в поэзии (на примере стихотворений Байрона, Вордсворта, Кольриджа, Саути и Шелли) 13
2.1. Рифма 13
2.2. Аллитерация 17
2.3. Ассонанс 19
2.4. Консонанс 20
2.5. Ономатопея 22
Заключение 24
Список использованной литературы 26
Приложения 28

One shade the more, one ray the less,     Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,     Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express     How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,     But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,     A heart whose love is innocent!
«I Saw Thee Weep» (Lord Byron)
I saw thee weep---the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew:
I saw thee smile---the sapphire's blaze
Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays
That filled that glance of thine.
As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow dye,
Which scarce the shade of coming eve
Can banish from the sky,
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
Their own pure joy impart;
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind
That lightens o'er the heart.
“My soul is dark” (Lord Byron)
My soul is dark -
Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel,
I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once - or yield to song.
«A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal” (W. Wordsworth)  A slumber did my spirit seal;  I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears, nor sees; Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,  With rock, and stones, and trees.
“To … , in her Seventieth Year” (W. Wordsworth)SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright,Whose mortal lineaments seem all refinedBy favouring Nature and a saintly MindTo something purer and more exquisiteThan flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek,Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,And head that droops because the soul is meek,Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare;That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb From desolation toward the genial prime;Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air,And filling more and more with crystal lightAs pensive Evening deepens into night.
“Lines Written at a Small Distance from my House and Sent” (W. Wordsworth)
It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you; - and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
- It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
“Littell’s Living Age” (S.T. Coleridge)
How seldom, friend, a good great man inheritsHonor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the world of spirits,If any man obtain that which he merits,Or any merit that which he obtains.For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain,What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain —Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain? —Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends;Hath he not always treasures, always friends,The good great man? — three treasures, love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;And three firm friends, more sure than day and night —Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death.
"Kubla Khan" (S.T. Coleridge)
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,
  To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and long,  I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
“Love” (S.T. Coleridge)
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,Are all but ministers of Love,And feed his sacred flame.Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o'er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I layBeside the ruined tower.The moonshine stealing o'er the sceneHad blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!She leant against the armed man,The statue of the armed knight;She stood and listened to my lay,Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene'er I singThe songs that make her grieve.I played a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story - An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he wooedThe Lady of the Land.I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another's loveInterpreted my own.She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face!But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he crossed the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, - There came and looked him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!And that, unknowing what he did,He leaped amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than deathThe Lady of the Land;And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain;And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain; - And that she nursed him in a cave;And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay; - His dying words -but when I reachedThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturbed her soul with pity!All impulses of soul and senseHad thrilled my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale,The rich and balmy eve;And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherished long! She wept with pity and delight,She blushed with love, and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.Her bosom heaved -she stepped aside,As conscious of my look she stepped - Then suddenly, with timorous eye,She fled to me and wept.She half enclosed me with her arms,She pressed me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, looked up,And gazed upon my face.'Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly 'twas a bashful art,That I might rather feel, than see,The swelling of her heart.I calmed her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride.
“The Cataract of Lodore” (R. Southey)
«How does the WaterCome down at Lodore?»My little boy ask'd meThus, once on a time;And moreover he task'd meTo tell him in rhyme.Anon at the wordThere came first one daughterAnd then came another,To second and thirdThe request of their brotherAnd to hear how the waterComes down at LodoreWith its rush and its roar, As many a timeThey had seen it before.So I told them in rhyme,For of rhymes I had store:And 'twas in my vocationFor their recreationThat so should I singBecause I was LaureateTo them and the King.From its sources which wellIn the Tarn on the fell;From its fountainsIn the mountains,Its rills and its gills;Through moss and through brake,It runs and it creeps For awhile till it sleepsIn its own little Lake.And thence at departing,Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reedsAnd away it proceeds,Through meadow and glade,In sun and in shade,And through the wood-shelter,Among crags in its flurry,Helter-skelter,Hurry-scurry. Here it comes sparkling,And there it lies darkling;Now smoking and frothingIts tumult and wrath in,Till in this rapid race On which it is bent,It reaches the placeOf its steep descent.
The Cataract strongThen plunges along,Striking and ragingAs if a war wagingIts caverns and rocks among:Rising and leaping,Sinking and creeping,Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing,Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing,Eddying and whisking,Spouting and frisking,Turning and twisting,Around and aroundWith endless rebound!Smiting and fighting,A sight to delight in;Confounding, astounding,Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.Collecting, projecting,Receding and speeding,And shocking and rocking,And darting and parting,And threading and spreading,And whizzing and hissing,And dripping and skipping,And hitting and splitting,And shining and twining,And rattling and battling,And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,And waving and raving,And tossing and crossing,And flowing and going,And running and stunning,And foaming and roaming,And dinning and spinning,And dropping and hopping,And working and jerking,And guggling and struggling,And heaving and cleaving,And moaning and groaning;And glittering and frittering,And gathering and feathering,And whitening and brightening,And quivering and shivering,And hurrying and scurrying,And thundering and floundering, Dividing and gliding and sliding,And falling and brawling and sprawling,And diving and riving and striving,And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,And sounding and bounding and rounding,And bubbling and troubling and doubling,And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;And so never ending, but always descending,Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
“The Cloud” (P. Shelley)
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laidIn their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that wakenThe sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast, As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,And whiten the green plains under,And then again I dissolve it in rain,And laugh as I pass in thunder.
On a faded violet
The odour from the flower is gone Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The colour from the flower is flown  Which glowed of thee and only thee! A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, It lies on my abandoned breast; And mocks the heart, which yet is warm With cold and silent rest. I weep --- my tears revive it not; I sigh --- it breathes no more on me: Its mute and uncomplaining lot Is such as mine should be.

3