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I assert my right to be hexameters
Wait, verse is obsolete?
You are 'regularly metric verse'. This can take
many forms, including heroic couplets, blank
verse, and other iambic pentameters, for
example. It has not been used much since the
nineteenth century; modern poets tend to prefer
rhyme without meter, or even poetry with
neither rhyme nor meter.
You appreciate the beautiful things in life--the
joy of music, the color of leaves falling, the
rhythm of a heartbeat. You see life itself as
a series of little poems. The result (or is it
the cause?) is that you are pensive and often
melancholy. You enjoy the company of other
people, but they find you unexcitable and
depressing. Your problem is that regularly
metric verse has been obsolete for a long time.
What obsolete skill are you?
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Also, I take umbrage with "unexcitable and depressing." What if I'm Sapphic stanzas? Elegiac couplets? Or even, God help us, galliambics? Metrics may put your blood pressure through the top of your head, especially if you are asked ex abrupto to distinguish between penthemimeral, trochaic, and hephthemimeral caesurae (not to mention bucolic diairesis) in a given line of Homeric verse, but I hardly find it depressing.
Don't all crowd to share my enthusiasm at once . . .
At least I'm represented by William Blake.
The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar;
Thel enter'd in & saw the secrets of the land unknown:
She saw the couches of the dead, & where the fibrous roots
Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists:
A land of sorrows & of tears where never smile was seen.
You are 'regularly metric verse'. This can take
many forms, including heroic couplets, blank
verse, and other iambic pentameters, for
example. It has not been used much since the
nineteenth century; modern poets tend to prefer
rhyme without meter, or even poetry with
neither rhyme nor meter.
You appreciate the beautiful things in life--the
joy of music, the color of leaves falling, the
rhythm of a heartbeat. You see life itself as
a series of little poems. The result (or is it
the cause?) is that you are pensive and often
melancholy. You enjoy the company of other
people, but they find you unexcitable and
depressing. Your problem is that regularly
metric verse has been obsolete for a long time.
What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Also, I take umbrage with "unexcitable and depressing." What if I'm Sapphic stanzas? Elegiac couplets? Or even, God help us, galliambics? Metrics may put your blood pressure through the top of your head, especially if you are asked ex abrupto to distinguish between penthemimeral, trochaic, and hephthemimeral caesurae (not to mention bucolic diairesis) in a given line of Homeric verse, but I hardly find it depressing.
Don't all crowd to share my enthusiasm at once . . .
At least I'm represented by William Blake.
The eternal gates' terrific porter lifted the northern bar;
Thel enter'd in & saw the secrets of the land unknown:
She saw the couches of the dead, & where the fibrous roots
Of every heart on earth infixes deep its restless twists:
A land of sorrows & of tears where never smile was seen.
no subject
So much for QBASIC. (I should know better than to make pronouncements about languages I don't speak, especially when they're computer languages.) Now all we need is someone who juggles and knows shorthand, and we can completely disprove this quiz . . .