...poet is feeling sad or has lost someone. Wind and Window Flower by Robert Frost and When We Two Parted by Lord Byron are two poems that express this type of love. In the poem Wind and Window Flower by Robert Frost the poet talks about unrequited love rather than sorrowful. The poem explores not being able to be with someone and losing them forever. The word “Breeze” and “Flower” are repeated many times throughout the poem and this emphasizes the fact that the people cannot be together. Lines 3-4 explain, who, and what the flower and breeze are. “She a window flower;/And he a winter breeze.” Because the reader knows that the flower is the girl and the breeze a boy the use of repetition on these two words emphasizes the...
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...keyword: wind Sort By: Go Your search returned over 400 essays for "wind" 1 2 3 4 5 Next >> These results are sorted by most relevant first (ranked search). You may also sort these by color rating or essay length. Title Length Color Rating Wind Power and Wildlife Issues in Kansas - ... Turbines can produce electricity at wind speeds as low as 9 miles per hour, reach their peak of production at 33 miles per hour, plus shut down and turn sideways at wind speeds above 56 miles per hour. An average wind speed at the site of a turbine is 20 miles per hour. Because of these features on the towers, they rank Kansas the 3rd in the US for wind energy potential. The Gray County Wind Farm in Kansas, powered by Florida Power and Light Energy, has collected data from 2001-2009 on electricity production.... [tags: kansas, wind energy, wind turbines] :: 1 Works Cited 1537 words (4.4 pages) $29.95 [preview] Analysis of Wind Turbine Designs - Abstract Bill Gates, founder of Microsoft and one of the most philanthropic men in history giving over 28 billion dollars to charity so far, states his number one wish for the world wouldn't be to rid the world of aids, vaccinate kids around the world, or feed every starving children; instead, it would be to invent and utilize a cheaper emission-free source of energy. My research aims to cut through the vast amounts of wind turbine designs and analyze the two most promising types. The first type is Small Vertical Axis Wind Turbines...
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...Reflections Of Love Table of Contents Prologue Storge (Affection in families)-Definition The Little Black Boy- William Blake Winter Trees- Sylvia Plath Mother to Son- Langston Hughes Philia (Friendship)- Definition Love and Friendship- Emily Bronte Time to Talk- Robert Frost Eros (Romance)- Definition Somewhere Never Traveled- E.E. Cummings Wind and Window- Robert Frost She Walks in Beauty- Lord George Byron Agape (Unconditional Love)- Definition How Do I Love Thee- Elizabeth Barrett Browning Love is More Thicker than Forget- E.E. Cummings Biographies Epilogue Storge Affection Affection- is the love through familiarity, especially between family members or people who have otherwise found themselves together by chance. It is described as the most natural, emotional feeling because it is outcome of love due to family ties. Fatefully, it is the strong point what makes it the most defenseless. The affection is “built-in” and as a consequence people expect it. Prologue This poetry anthology is a collection of poems, which shows the people's view of love. As I am a hopeless romantic, I chose this topic. I think the journey that life takes us all on is one filled with many adventures. I believe to truly live life to the fullest would be to love. If a person can say that he or she has never truly been loved or loved someone then he or she has never really lived. The feeling of love is so euphoric. The...
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...it is part of the county I loved, is part of the county where I grew up and is part of my childhood. This place is in the country in an old region named Appalachia, a small piece of the Appalachian Mountains, in a town named Pikeville. Pikeville is a polluted town because of the coal industry. People live in apartment or condominium buildings because of its little space available. I grew up in one of the many buildings in Pikeville admiring from my bedroom window the beauty of the mountains, always exploring with my eyes the forest or the meadows, looking for a clean and quiet place. And, I found one on a hill in the back of the town. It is about 100 feet square, it has seven old trees, wild flowers and a lot of bugs and ants during summer time. I used to go there to sit down on a rock and watch the town and my trees. There was a very old tree, a maple tree, with a huge trunk. The others were smaller, three in the back, three on my left side and the old maple tree on my right. There were flowers, many kinds, white, yellow, purple and blue. It was nobody's place. Nobody owned that hill, but it was beautiful and peaceful and I dreamed many times about a white house over there. I think that, these kinds of places are meaningful to people because they are natural and people can be there alone, away from their everyday life. I used to go there to be alone or to dream with my eyes open admiring the blue sky or the...
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...If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine O, Mother Earth by Ernesto P. Santiago O, Mother Earth, O, Mother Earth, you’re so rich, with butterflies’ songs and full of olden lullabies, sung by mountains and valleys while rivers keep flowing through the ever-changing seasons of life. Youspeak the language I hardly know, but...
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...parents used, and a third guest room. These all needed minor repairs mainly the wood floors needed refinishing and the walls fresh paint. She jotted down more notes. There was one more area to examine, the attic. Remembering that boards covered the windows, she needed something to pry them away to allow light into the space. Casey returned to the car to grab the flashlight from the glove compartment and a tire iron from the trunk before returning to the attic. As the door swung open a musty odor greeted her. Standing in the doorway, she waited a few moments while her eyes adjusted to the darkness before moving into the center of the room. Scanning the room for the general direction of the windows splinters of...
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...the ingredients of a witches' broth? The beady spider, the flower like a froth, And the moth carried like a paper kite. What had that flower to do with being white, The blue prunella every child's delight. What brought the kindred spider to that height? (Make we no thesis of the miller's plight.) What but design of darkness and of night? Design, design! Do I use the word aright? Anonymous submission. Robert Frost www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 A Boundless Moment He halted in the wind, and -- what was that Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost? He stood there bringing March against his thought, And yet too ready to believe the most. "Oh, that's the Paradise-in-bloom," I said; And truly it was fair enough for flowers had we but in us to assume in march Such white luxuriance of May for ours. We stood a moment so in a strange world, Myself as one his own pretense deceives; And then I said the truth (and we moved on). A young beech clinging to its last year's leaves. Robert Frost www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 A Brook In The City The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed. The meadow...
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...carpet, paint, and tiled floors. Metals used rebar with framed trusses. It includes doors and windows plumbing fixtures and equipment. Engineered wood and dimensional lumber, studs and treated lumber, sub flooring panel, treated plywood, cabinets, trim and baseboards. Double hung windows. We make sure that the materials we use for building a house should be compatible to the type of climate where the property will be built. Weather has a major effect in the functionality of a building or structure. Climate is a significant factor on the life span, environmental performance and durability of construction materials. the effect of the architectural design and structure to human thermal comfort, which includes the window, layout, ventilation and shading conditions on the climate indoors. Secondly, climate conditions can differ from surrounding climactic conditions such as wind speed, temperature and humidity. The climate in this place is humid and the majority of building materials used in building construction is concrete. Many buildings and houses are built with the use of concrete materials for the simple reason that it is durable with rain. The proportions of windows, floors, doors, and walls should all level and equal out and balance up. This house exhibits smooth flow of traffic. It stimulates the senses by the landscaping maintenance of the grounds, the trimmed hedges, and planted flowers and trees. The line, form, color, and...
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...summer vacation without worrying about the expenses, maybe it could be my ideal one. This thought triggered me to ask myself, “What would be my ideal summer vacation looks like?” To start my visualization, I would like to spend it in a place afar from the noisy streets of the city. A place where the only sounds I can hear are the chirping of the birds, the waves crashing on the shore and the laughter of my family. In that place, the trees are dancing gracefully and flowers are waving gently with the wind. In the distance, the shore is filled with sand so white, crystal clear water and with porpoises on the sea side. On the top of the hill resides our home, a small bungalow type but filled with so much contentment and joy. Inside of it are simple things to suffice our needs. Upon entering the entrance door, you will see the clean and tidy living room, with a window on the right that offers a beautiful sight of the blue ocean. Beside our home, there stood a tall and old narra tree that gives us shade during the day. Flowers of different kinds and varieties grows around the yard abundantly. Then, I can see the endless sky above with shiny shimmering stars blinking at night and in the water, it seems the unreachable stars are within my grasp. In a distance, I can see the fire keeps burning from the bonfire we have made, and beside it, sitting my loved ones with a happy face. Generally, my summer vacation would be an ideal one, even though I may not have those picturesque sceneries...
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...of red, yellow, orange and brown glisten in the sunlight. Leaves dancing from the limbs of massive tall trees as the wind blows swiftly across the ridges. The smell of pine is coming from the beautiful lush pine trees. Early morning brings a white cloud of fog from deep in the valley, making it appear as if one were sitting on top a giant cloud. Being welcome by large antler deer, fluffy rabbits, singing birds are a few emerging from the dark forest. Long narrow creeks flowing through the mountainside. The narrow, bumpy road winding around the mountainside, climbing higher and higher. On one side, there is a hill of nothing but brown dirt and luscious pines that seem to travel to the heavens. However; on the other hand, the elevation drops drastically into never land. As I look down, all I can see is colorful, vibrant tree tops swaying in the wind. I dislike thinking what could happen if my tire were to slip off the narrow road edge. Bringing my eyes back looking straight ahead I notice the image of something entirely large just ahead of me. Approaching closer, I see a baby cub who must have wandered off from its mother. It appears to have fluffy brown fur and big brown eyes. Playing in the roadway, rolling around like a small child until it spots me. It gets up and walks towards my car. Not showing an ounce of fear, it sniffs my car and looks at me. My window is cracked, and I get a whiff of a not so pleasant smell. After a few minutes of checking me out, the cub turns and runs...
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...ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. 5. The night is black and the forest has no end; a million people thread it in a million ways. We have trysts to keep in the darkness, but where or with whom - of that we are unaware. 6. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart….. 7. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure. 8. SUPPOSING I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother? You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet. 9. O you shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of...
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...A hundred dead and dying flowers occupy the shelves in Alma’s garage. Countless sunlit mornings push past her window and beam in hot amber bars against her curling wallpaper. They coax her to the nursery, where she meticulously searches for the most colorful, healthy-looking plants. Petunias, violets, pansies—especially pansies—each blessed with the delightful promise of continual budding, would jerk and twist in their crates in the back of the car, waiting for their debut to new soil. Her son decided her future for her, so the foliage will now sit for a bone-dry day on the shelf; another, another. Cathy makes her tea at six o’clock each morning. She has never been to England and hates her “first generation American” title. She speaks with an English accent acquired from her parents, dead and gone, reads etiquette books from cover to cover, writes on fancy stationery to old acquaintances who seldom return a word. Her house seeps lace, buckles under...
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...of the place I call “home”, let me take you on a visit there. Situated at the end of a dirt road which runs off another, larger county road is the place I call “home”. Here, my mother raised three girls without the help or companionship of a husband. The house set back about 200 feet from the road. As we stroll up the dirt drive lined with rows of wild gladiolas on each side, sits the tidy small, unpainted old frame house. On the porch, I can't help but notice a high-backed rocker on one side and a bench worn smooth by age on the other. Both remind me of the many hours spent here enjoying the weather and view. Turning the door knob and entering the foyer is like taking a step back in time. The door, is the same as when I was a kid, the windows are free of curtains, only shades yellowing from age, pulled at night, as if privacy is needed out here in the boondocks. Mom's big over-stuffed floral couch is set beside the well-stocked bookcase. One lonely picture with the words "Home, Sweet Home" hangs on the wall over the fireplace. Just to the right is a doorway, minus a door, calling us to investigate the sweet smell drifting our way. Upon entering the kitchen, a rich smell of freshly baked bread overtakes the senses. Mom removes the loaves from the belly of the oven leaving them to cool in neat rows on the old marble table. The walls were white and had little kitchen knick knacks like chickens and things of that...
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...Tessa Childhood Encapsulated Mustard yellow walls encase the room. Walls that make the room seem devastatingly hot in the summer and just right in the winter. The yellow walls are complemented by blue accents throughout the room. A blue bedspread sprinkled with multicoloured flowers, like a cartoon field coating the double bed. Windows surround the bed bathing it in natural light, the windows are trimmed by shear blue curtains all the same shade with different patterns. Curtains that on cool fall days billow softly in the wind. Beside the bed is a small window with a door, into my sister’s room beside mine. The door is often open so that we can engage in late night chats, but is closed when our sleep schedules don’t quite match up. Beside the bed is a white side table topped with a lamp holding a bulb in need of replacing. On this dresser is a stack of Archie comics a retainer and a handful of rocks with images of crudely painted marine life from summers past....
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...colors within this frame are darker than autumn, darker even than winter--the browns of earth, though earth's most radiant elements burn through the canvas. I know now that woman and painting and season are almost one and all beyond saving by children. A New Poet Finding a new poet is like finding a new wildflower out in the woods. You don't see its name in the flower books, and nobody you tell believes in its odd color or the way its leaves grow in splayed rows down the whole length of the page. In fact the very page smells of spilled red wine and the mustiness of the sea on a foggy day - the odor of truth and of lying. And the words are so familiar, so strangely new, words you almost wrote yourself, if only in your dreams there had been a pencil or a pen or even a paintbrush, if only there had been a flower. Emily Dickinson We think of hidden in a white dress among the folded linens and sachets of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight sending jellies and notes with no address to all the wondering Amherst neighbors. Eccentric as New England weather the stiff wind of her mind, stinging or...
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