Robert Frost is the quintessential American poet. What's funny is that today a lot of poetry magazines wouldn't accept even his most famous poems since they have the "rhyming poetry not accepted" schtick. Shoot, a poetry magazine not accepting rhyming poetry is like a maternity ward not accepting pregnant women.

You read Robert's biography and you wonder how the heck could a failed student, a failed teacher, a failed farmer, and (at the time) a failed poet, just up and pull his family of six from New Hampshire and move to England just to write poetry. Well, it helps if you have a rich grandfather who leaves you a yearly annuity plus the family farm that you can sell for the cash needed to live in London.

All in all, Robert's life was no bed of roses even after he got to where he could earn a living from his poetry. And if you think Robert's poems are all icky-sweet wholesome Mom-Apple-Pie-And-The-American-Way stuff like "The Pasture", then read "Home Burial", both from North of Boston. Pret-ty spooky.