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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningRelated BY ROBERT FROST

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningRelated BY ROBERT FROST

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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.

- This poem is all about expressing himself, showing what he thinks. Whats really going on this poem? There is no true answer. the statement about talks about how to express yourself, at least to me. It about the being creative and showing what you really can think of.

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Life In A Love - Poem by Robert Browning

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Life In A Love - Poem by Robert Browning

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Escape me?
Never---
Beloved!
While I am I, and you are you,
So long as the world contains us both,
Me the loving and you the loth
While the one eludes, must the other pursue.
My life is a fault at last, I fear:
It seems too much like a fate, indeed!
Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.
But what if I fail of my purpose here?
It is but to keep the nerves at strain,
To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,
And, baffled, get up and begin again,---
So the chace takes up one's life ' that's all.
While, look but once from your farthest bound
At me so deep in the dust and dark,
No sooner the old hope goes to ground
Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark,
I shape me---
Ever
Removed!

- I noticed that I have referenced a lot to love within this padlet. But thats just really what I feel when I read “Without poetry, the soul and heart of [humanity] starves and dies.” love, life and soul. This poem speaks of questioning life and where he is in life.

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I am not the only traveler
Who has not repaid his debt
I've been searching for a trail to follow again
Take me back to the night we met

And then I can tell myself
What the hell I'm supposed to do
And then I can tell myself
Not to ride along with you

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met

When the night was full of terrors
And your eyes were filled with tears
When you had not touched me yet
Oh, take me back to the night we met

I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you
Take me back to the night we met
I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Take me back to the night we met

- The lyrics of this song really speak to me in way, that can only be expressed through love. I feel that through the words Lowell stated that I have above, she means that you have to live to have life experience. You only know by living. This song is heart, love and soul. It speaks of pain and the loss of a lover. The sadness is what really makes it real and make you feel the true meaning of the song. Which to me is loss and love.

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A Psalm Of Life - Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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A Psalm Of Life - Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

- This is my poem that I have brought to this padlet, not from our books. I love this poem for all it has to say. It talks of true life experience. It compares to the statement above by Lowell; speaking from the soul. Speaking the words of true life experience and expressing real emotions. Its important to express yourself and this is exactly what this poet did, through his words. He relates everything he says through similes that connect us to the poem. Only the soul can speak true poetry and meaning of life.

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Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.

Shovel them under and let me work—

I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg

And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.

Shovel them under and let me work.

Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

What place is this?

Where are we now?

I am the grass.

Let me work.

- Within this short poem "grass" its comparing himself to the grass of the earth. Showing his true feelings about the world and the things that are happening around him. I think that this is so powerful, he is short and sweet with his words, but at the same time explaining something so deep to us. He doesn't just write about the recent war; he tackles a very long history of wars in his poem, and connects them all together with the idea of the grass growing over battlefields.

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Speech to the Young. Speech to the Progress-Toward 

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Speech to the Young. Speech to the Progress-Toward 

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Say to them,
say to the down-keepers,
the sun-slappers,
the self-soilers,
the harmony-hushers,
"even if you are not ready for day
it cannot always be night."
You will be right.
For that is the hard home-run.

Live not for battles won.
Live not for the-end-of-the-song.
Live in the along.

- This to me is someone being as honest as possible about life. They are saying to speak to the young and tell them what is to come and to be prepared. Its being honest and telling them what is to come next. "Live in the along" live life and be happy is what i receive from this poem. Its true honesty.

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I enjoy "The Silken Tent" because of the realness with the writer. In the poem, the poet is comparing the tent with the woman whom the poet loved. How much he cared for her, and telling us why he does. I have always enjoyed poems about people love/ lust for one another. I fell that there is more to it though, that possibly it may be a few people he loves that he lusts for.

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She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.

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The instructor said,

Go home and write

a page tonight.

And let that page come out of you—

Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?

I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.

I went to school there, then Durham, then here

to this college on the hill above Harlem.

I am the only colored student in my class.

The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,

through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,

Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,

the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator

up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you.

hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.

(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.

I like a pipe for a Christmas present,

or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.

I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like

the same things other folks like who are other races.

So will my page be colored that I write?

Being me, it will not be white.

But it will be

a part of you, instructor.

You are white—

yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.

That’s American.

Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.

Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that’s true!

As I learn from you,

I guess you learn from me—

although you’re older—and white—

and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

- This is truly one of the best points to Lowell's statement above. The writer is expressing through writing a paper for their english class. Comparing themselves to the teacher, and expressing the difference in culture between the two. The writer didn't feel confident saying this aloud, so writing gave them the chance to say it all. Poems allow you to express your true feelings, which is exactly what this person has done.

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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

- This is the true meaning of poetry to me, being able to express all of your true emotions through words, poetry. In this poem, he is truly expressing his heart and soul to the reader, with pain that you can feel. This poem lets the writer speak his heart to the world, which is what Lowell talks about in the statement above. Being able to express is everything, especially when it comes to death. Without poems how would he have been able to talk about this in such depth.

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The whiskey on your breath

Could make a small boy dizzy;

But I hung on like death:

Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans

Slid from the kitchen shelf;

My mother’s countenance

Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist

Was battered on one knuckle;

At every step you missed

My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head

With a palm caked hard by dirt,

Then waltzed me off to bed

Still clinging to your shirt.

- Reading this time and again, brings so much real emotion to the table. He is talking of true experiences with family (father) and what it was like to grow. Branching from what Lowell said above, I think that without expression through poetry, you have no way to show real feelings. And from that, then they will just disappear.

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Poetry is everything around us. Its the blue sky we see, its the love we share with others, its our family/friends. Anything you see or feel can become poetry. I believe that poetry needs to come from the heart, it needs real emotion behind it to back it up. Before this assignment I had not heard of Amy Lowell, though after readying through a lot of her poems I see how much I can relate to her. I don't tend to write a lot of poetry though readying her's, it motivates me to be more open and look for a deeper meaning within things. This is why I have chosen this quote from her, "Without poetry, the soul and heart of [humanity] starves and dies." Poetry shows the beauty and soul of live, its not always the most wonderful to hear but its the real that makes us feel. The "real" to me is emotion, opening up to things that are not comfortable. Without poetry where would the world be? How would we act? Who would we be?

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“Without poetry, the soul and heart of [humanity] starves and dies.” - Amy Lowell