it’s a response paper for poems or short stories. The paper consists of only one primary source and no secondary sources. most important is your clear argument and usin” rel=”nofollow”>ing the taught material in” rel=”nofollow”>in a meanin” rel=”nofollow”>ingful way. I have upload the detailed in” rel=”nofollow”>instruction, one short story and two poems below. you can choose one of them to write the response paper.

“The Story of An Hour”
Kate Chopin” rel=”nofollow”>in (1894)

Knowin” rel=”nofollow”>ing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.
It was her sister Josephin” rel=”nofollow”>ine who told her, in” rel=”nofollow”>in broken sentences; veiled hin” rel=”nofollow”>ints that revealed in” rel=”nofollow”>in half concealin” rel=”nofollow”>ing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in” rel=”nofollow”>in the newspaper office when in” rel=”nofollow”>intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leadin” rel=”nofollow”>ing the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in” rel=”nofollow”>in bearin” rel=”nofollow”>ing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed in” rel=”nofollow”>inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in” rel=”nofollow”>in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facin” rel=”nofollow”>ing the open win” rel=”nofollow”>indow, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach in” rel=”nofollow”>into her soul.
She could see in” rel=”nofollow”>in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new sprin” rel=”nofollow”>ing life. The delicious breath of rain” rel=”nofollow”>in was in” rel=”nofollow”>in the air. In the street below a peddler was cryin” rel=”nofollow”>ing his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was sin” rel=”nofollow”>ingin” rel=”nofollow”>ing reached her fain” rel=”nofollow”>intly, and countless sparrows were twitterin” rel=”nofollow”>ing in” rel=”nofollow”>in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showin” rel=”nofollow”>ing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in” rel=”nofollow”>in the west facin” rel=”nofollow”>ing her win” rel=”nofollow”>indow.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up in” rel=”nofollow”>into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep contin” rel=”nofollow”>inues to sob in” rel=”nofollow”>in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lin” rel=”nofollow”>ines bespoke repression and even a certain” rel=”nofollow”>in strength. But now there was a dull stare in” rel=”nofollow”>in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather in” rel=”nofollow”>indicated a suspension of in” rel=”nofollow”>intelligent thought.
There was somethin” rel=”nofollow”>ing comin” rel=”nofollow”>ing to her and she was waitin” rel=”nofollow”>ing for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creepin” rel=”nofollow”>ing out of the sky, reachin” rel=”nofollow”>ing toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was begin” rel=”nofollow”>innin” rel=”nofollow”>ing to recognize this thin” rel=”nofollow”>ing that was approachin” rel=”nofollow”>ing to possess her, and she was strivin” rel=”nofollow”>ing to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursin” rel=”nofollow”>ing blood warmed and relaxed every in” rel=”nofollow”>inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again” rel=”nofollow”>in when she saw the kin” rel=”nofollow”>ind, tender hands folded in” rel=”nofollow”>in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in” rel=”nofollow”>in welcome.
There would be no one to live for durin” rel=”nofollow”>ing those comin” rel=”nofollow”>ing years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bendin” rel=”nofollow”>ing hers in” rel=”nofollow”>in that blin” rel=”nofollow”>ind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kin” rel=”nofollow”>ind in” rel=”nofollow”>intention or a cruel in” rel=”nofollow”>intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in” rel=”nofollow”>in that brief moment of illumin” rel=”nofollow”>ination.
And yet she had loved him–sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in” rel=”nofollow”>in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her bein” rel=”nofollow”>ing!
“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whisperin” rel=”nofollow”>ing.
Josephin” rel=”nofollow”>ine was kneelin” rel=”nofollow”>ing before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, implorin” rel=”nofollow”>ing for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door–you will make yourself ill. What are you doin” rel=”nofollow”>ing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”
“Go away. I am not makin” rel=”nofollow”>ing myself ill.” No; she was drin” rel=”nofollow”>inkin” rel=”nofollow”>ing in” rel=”nofollow”>in a very elixir of life through that open win” rel=”nofollow”>indow.
Her fancy was runnin” rel=”nofollow”>ing riot along those days ahead of her. Sprin” rel=”nofollow”>ing days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish triumph in” rel=”nofollow”>in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittin” rel=”nofollow”>ingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waitin” rel=”nofollow”>ing for them at the bottom.
Some one was openin” rel=”nofollow”>ing the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stain” rel=”nofollow”>ined, composedly carryin” rel=”nofollow”>ing his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephin” rel=”nofollow”>ine’s piercin” rel=”nofollow”>ing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills

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