Poems

1. Poetry is someones emotions combined with their thoughts written down in a certain format.

2.I think that they way that the poem is expressed determines if it is a poem or not.

3. Robert Frost: He was born in San Francisco on March 26, 1874. From there he moved to New England where he was enrolled at Dartmouth and then Harvard, never earning a degree from either. Frost's first professional poem, "My Butterfly," was published on November 8, 1894, in the New York newspaper The Independent. he married Elinor Miriam who was an incredible influence for his poetry. the coupled moved to England in 1912 and later returned in 1915 after publishing two full length collections, a boys will and north of Boston.

~A Lone Striker:
The swinging mill bell changed its rateTo tolling like the count of fate,And though at that the tardy ran,One failed to make the closing gate.There was a law of God or manThat on the one who came too lateThe gate for half an hour be locked,His time be lost, his pittance docked.He stood rebuked and unemployed.The straining mill began to shake.The mill, though many-many-eyed,Had eyes inscrutably opaque;So that he couldn’t look insideTo see if some forlorn machineWas standing idle for his sake.(He couldn’t hope its heart would break.)
And yet he thought he saw the scene:The air was full of dust of wool.A thousand yarns were under pull,But pull so slow, with such a twist,All day from spool to lesser spool,It seldom overtaxed their strength;They safely grew in slender length.And if one broke by any chance,The spinner saw it at a glance.The spinner still was there to spin.That’s where the human still came in.Her deft hand showed with finger ringsAmong the harplike spread of strings.She caught the pieces end to endAnd, with a touch that never missed,Not so much tied as made them blend.Man’s ingenuity was good.He saw it plainly where he stood,Yet found it easy to resist.
He knew another place, a wood,And in it, tall as trees, were cliffs;And if he stood on one of these,‘Twould be among the tops of trees,Their upper branches round him wreathing,Their breathing mingled with his breathing.If---if he stood! Enough of ifs!He knew a path that wanted walking;He knew a spring that wanted drinking;A thought that wanted further thinking;A love that wanted re-renewing.Nor was this just a way of talkingTo save him the expense of doing.With him it boded action, deed.
The factory was very fine;He wished it all the modern speed.Yet, after all, ‘twas not divine,That is to say, ‘twas not a church.He never would assume that he’dBe any institution’s need.But he said then and still would say,If there should ever come a dayWhen industry seemed like to die Because he left it in the lurch,Or even merely seemed to pineFor want of his approval, why,Come get him---they knew where to search.

~Farewell
Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river
And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever;
Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;

farewell to the miller’s brook and his three bony daughters;
Farewell to them all while in prison I lie—
In the prison a thrall sees naught but the sky.
Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes;
In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes.
Farewell to the old mill and dash of the waters,
To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters.
In the nook, the larger burdock grows near the green willow;
In the flood, round the moor-cock dashes under the billow;
To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters,
To the miller himsel’, and his Three Bonny Daughters

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, on January 19, 1809. his mother and father died before he was three years old and he was raised by John and Frances Allan. in 1827 he enlisted in the army and wrote his first collection of poems,Tamerlane, and Other Poems. After selling his poems and short stories he became the editor of Southern Literary Messenger in 1835. he moved to richmond with his aunt and his cousin. he wrote many works from then till he died in 1849.

~A Dream
In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed—But a waking dream of life and lightHath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are castOn things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past? That holy dream—that holy dream,While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afar—What could there be more purely bright

~Eulaie
I dwelt aloneIn a world of moan,And my soul was a stagnant tide,Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less—less brightThe stars of the nightThan the eyes of the radiant girl!And never a flakeThat the vapor can makeWith the moon-tints of purple and pearl,Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl—Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt—now Pain Come never again,For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,And all day longShines, bright and strong,Astarté within the sky,While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

All four of these peoms show my meaning of peoty by shoing emotion. They show a lot of emotion and what that peorson is thinking and feeling to a situation. it doesnt matter if they did not actually livwe through that situation they show how they would react to that situation.