Shelley, Keats, and Byron:

The Romantics or the Tyrannts.

Colridge, Wordsworth, and Blake:

Men of nature or fate.

Jane Eyre, Frankenstein, and 1984:

When will we be our own?


The poets we read and the stories we share,

all come together within the air.

We share and laugh and dream

of things we can only believe.


Are we reading to fill the time or are we trying to sympathize?

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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