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The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Related:  Poetry

JavaScript Kit- Your comprehensive JavaScript, DHTML, CSS, and Ajax stop Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Source: Collected Poems, Prose, & Plays (Library of America, 1995) Biography Robert Frost holds a unique and almost isolated position in American letters. Continue reading this biography

Meze Audiophile wood Headphones & Earphones- perfect natural sound On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien. Discover this poem’s context and related poetry, articles, and media. Poet John Keats 1795–1821 POET’S REGION England SCHOOL / PERIOD Romantic Subjects Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Activities, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Travels & Journeys, Poetry & Poets Poetic Terms Sonnet, Imagery, Allusion Biography John Keats, who died at the age of twenty-five, had perhaps the most remarkable career of any English poet. Poem Categorization

About RocketDock - RocketDock.com Gerard Manley Hopkins Gerard Manley Hopkins is one of the three or four greatest poets of the Victorian era. He is regarded by different readers as the greatest Victorian poet of religion, of nature, or of melancholy. However, because his style was so radically different from that of his contemporaries, his best poems were not accepted for publication during his lifetime, and his achievement was not fully recognized until after World War I. Hopkins's idiosyncratic creativity was the result of interactions with others, beginning with the members of his family. Hopkins's extended family constituted a social environment that made the commitment of an eldest son to religion, language, and art not only possible but also highly probable. His mother, Kate Smith Hopkins (1821-1900), was a devout High Church Anglican who brought up her children to be religious. Her sister Maria Smith Giberne taught Hopkins to sketch. These artistic and religious traditions were also supported by Hopkins's paternal relations.

What’s in a Color? The Unique Human Health Effects of Blue Light The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins : Poem Guide : Learning Lab I fell in love with “The Windhover” when I was a teenager, recognizing right away the rapture of a love poem directed not at a particular person (though the poem is dedicated “To Christ our Lord”) but to life itself. The poem is widely anthologized, a cornerstone of the English canon, bridging the Victorian Age and early 20th century Modernism. Its author, Gerard Manley Hopkins, was a Jesuit priest who died at the age of 44. When I was first discovering poetry, it was 1986 or so, and I was taught largely contemporary confessional and identity poetry written in modern, accessible, but (to me) dull language. I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! Again, it immediately seemed to me that this was a love poem. Fear not: we are reading about a real falcon.

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