Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902. Langston Hughes died of complications from prostate cancer in May 22, 1967, in New York. In his memory, his residence at 20 East 127th Street in Harlem, New York City, has been given landmark status by the New York City Preservation Commission, and East 127th Street has been renamed "Langston Hughes Place."
Dream Variations by Langston Hughes: To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening Beneath a tall tree While night comes on gently, Dark like me-That is my dream! To fling my arms wide In the face of the sun, Dance! Whirl! Whirl! Till the quick day is done. Rest at pale evening . . . A tall, slim tree . . . Night coming tenderly Black like me.

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/83 http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15610

Robert Frost

Robert Frost was born in San Francisco on March 26, 1874. Robert Frost lived and taught for many years in Massachusetts and Vermont, and died in Boston on January 29, 1963. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15717 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/192

Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1830. Throughout her life, she seldom left her house and visitors were scarce. By the 1860s, Dickinson lived in almost total physical isolation from the outside world, but actively maintained many correspondences and read widely. She died in Amherst, MA in 1886.

Bird came down the walk

A Bird came down the Walk He did not know I saw He bit an Angleworm in halves And ate the fellow, raw, And then he drank a Dew From a convenient Grass And then hopped sidewise to the Wall To let a Beetle pass He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all around They looked like frightened Beads, I thought He stirred his Velvet Head Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home Than Oars divide the Ocean, Too silver for a seam Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon

Leap, plashless as they swim. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20949 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/155 Walt Whitman

Born on May 31, 1819, Walt Whitman was the second son of Walter Whitman, a house builder, and Louisa Van Velsor. After his death on March 26, 1892, Whitman was buried in a tomb he designed and had built on a lot in Harleigh Cemetery. O Captain! My Captain! By Walt Whitman O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the flag is flungfor you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! Dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm; he has neither pulse nor will, The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15754 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/126

E.E. Cummings

Edward Estlin Cummings was born at home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, October 14, 1894. At the time of his death, September 3, 1962, he was the second most widely read poet in the United States, after Robert Frost. He is buried in Forest Hills Cemetery in Boston, Massachusetts. 9. by E. E. Cummings there are so many tictoc clocks everywhere telling people what toctic time it is for tictic instance five toc minutes toc past six tic Spring is not regulated and does not get out of order nor do its hands a little jerking move over numbers slowly we do not wind it up it has no weights springs wheels inside of its slender self no indeed dear nothing of the kind. (So, when kiss Spring comes we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss lips because tic clocks toc don't make a toctic difference to kiss kiss you and to kiss me) http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21421 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/156 Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts on January 19, 1809. Poe's father and mother, both professional actors, died before the poet was three and John and Frances Allan raised him as a foster child in Richmond, Virginia. On October 3, 1849, he was found in a state of semi-consciousness. Poe died four days later of "acute congestion of the brain." A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow: You are not wrong who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16092 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/130 T.S. Eliot

Thomas Stearns Eliot was born in Missouri on September 26, 1888. in 1956. T. S. Eliot received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948, and died in London in 1965. La Figlia Che Piange by T. S. Eliot O quam te memorem virgo Stand on the highest pavement of the stair Lean on a garden urn Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used. I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand. She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers. And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose. Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon's repose. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15305 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/18

Gwendolyn Brooks

Gwendolyn Brooks was born in Topeka, Kansas, in 1917 and raised in Chicago. She is the author of more than twenty books of poetry. She lived in Chicago until her death on December 3, 2000. The Bean Eaters by Gwendolyn Brooks They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware. Two who are Mostly Good. Two who have lived their day, But keep on putting on their clothes And putting things away. And remembering . . . Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15913 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/165

William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth was born on April 7, 1770, in Cockermouth, Cumbria, England. Wordsworth's mother died when he was eight--this experience shapes much of his later work. William Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount on April 23, 1850, leaving his wife Mary to publish The Prelude three months later. from The Kitten and Falling Leaves by William Wordsworth See the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leavesonetwoand three, from the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air, of this morning bright and fair . . . But the kitten, how she starts; Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow, just as light and just as yellow; There are many nownow onenow they stop and there are none; What intenseness of desire, in her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half way, now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then, has it in her power again: Now she works with three or four, like an Indian Conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19966 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/296

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare was born on April 23, 1564, in Stratford-on-Avon. The son of John Shakespeare and Mary Arden. While Shakespeare was regarded as the foremost dramatist of his time evidence indicates that both he and his world looked to poetry, not playwriting, for enduring fame. He died on April 23, 1616, and was buried two days later at Stratford Church. King Lear, Act III, Scene II [Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!] by William Shakespeare King Lear, with the Fool, in a storm Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's moulds, an germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man! http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20344 http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/122

Poetry Booklet Project

by

Justin Grimes

Mrs. Bruton
1st period 1/30/2011