Because these poems are over a century old, I could not decipher how the protagonist was hurt.

I searched the Google.

It was a mill accident (which I was able to deduce), where his coat was caught in a piece of machinery, and his legs and feet were crushed.

Google wasn’t terribly helpful. I caught the piece about the legs and feet, but I missed the coat part.

Anyway. Pretty cool story. These are easy to read. But I wouldn’t call it poetry. I don’t know how many times I’ve said that.

There is a mystery to all of them, something held back from the reader so that questions never fully end. Maybe that’s what some would argue. I’m not saying it isn’t art, though. I’m saying it isn’t poetry.

But… Frost waves his Pulitzer Prizes at me from the grave.