Robert Frost

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

Comments about Robert Frost

  • Claire Thomas (5/18/2013 5:32:00 AM)

    Robert Frost is my favourite poet and mending wall my favourite poem.It can be taken and considered on many levels.Physical, mental, emotional barriers.Good fences make good neighbours?

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  • Chad Warden (4/12/2013 10:14:00 AM)

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  • Mary Cross (4/4/2013 3:55:00 PM)

    I am amazed at how many of his poems I remember and can recite in smaller/larger parts.

  • Zhaleh Hour Zhaleh Hour (3/25/2013 6:01:00 AM)

    He is a really great poet. I love his poems esp The road Not Taken. In my view our life in a way is the road not taken!

  • David Micheal Ecklund (3/18/2013 5:32:00 PM)

    Giggity giggity goo!

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  • Abraham Jeong (3/6/2013 8:29:00 PM)

    dont know about him very much

  • Lisa Smith (2/2/2013 11:59:00 PM)

    Robert Frost is a poet with something for everyone. He writes rhymed poetry as if it were natural, easy dialogue. He appeals to the best instincts of anyone and seems constantly to be climbing toward the infinite. Many of his poems are good enough to give me shivers. He will never become obsolete.

  • Bikash Kc (1/15/2013 10:57:00 PM)

    i have not read all poems of Frost but what i read are all impressive and real...

Best Poem of Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come ...

Read the full of The Road Not Taken

Out, Out

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.

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