Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

Comments about Robert Frost

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  • p.a. noushad (9/7/2013 12:03:00 AM)

    Your verses give the insight of life through the nature and experiences.

    119 person liked.
    161 person did not like.
  • Tom Safford (8/30/2013 10:54:00 PM)

    Some in America prefer Whitman or Dickinson, but to me, Frost is our best. Whitman had nothing to fight with Frost's turn of phrase, nor how Frost knew how to end a poem powerfully; Whitman was a crappy poet who became famous with his journal. Dickinson was a master at rhyming but lacked Frost's depth.

    Mending Wall
    The Road Not Taken
    Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Tree At My Window
    Fire and Ice
    Nothing Gold Can Stay
    Birches
    The Ax Helve
    Desert Places

    ...are all great poems. One man won the Pulitzer Prize in poetry four times. That man is Robert Frost, America's greatest poet. He rhymes (Whitman did not) , he is deep (Dickinson was not) , he coins phrases (good fences make good neighbors; nature's first green is gold; I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference... etc.) . Our best, period. Poetry should be both fun and profound... not boring and profound or entertaining and shallow. His mastery of profundity and rhyming/turn of phrase make Frost da best.

  • Warren Jones (8/10/2013 1:07:00 PM)

    I've read many opinions of what this poem means. I think the one I like best is this one, which I lifted from Wikipedia:
    It seems fair to say that this poem is about the human tendency to look back and attribute blame to minor events in one's life, or to make more meaning of things than they may deserve.

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  • Bobby Wynn (6/23/2013 1:33:00 PM)

    Stopping by woods on a snowy evening
    Is the perfect example of his being
    Keeping it simple enough for me
    Yet revealing what makes him still the king

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  • Ghhy Hhgf (5/30/2013 8:58:00 AM)

    i love robert frost! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 1

After Apple Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight

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