Robert Frost

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

Comments about Robert Frost

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  • Vineet Kapoor (4/24/2007 12:16:00 PM)

    Well people who don't understand poetry are surely not second citizens. However, their wish to write off what they don't understand is foolish. They'd be better off asking for cues to get the hang of poetry - if they are willing to learn. And if they'd prefer not to, they should abstain from remarks that refer to their own shallowness.

    We don't know Whitt Bell and we may too not care, but do care what Robert Frost weaves..

    15 person liked.
    51 person did not like.
  • Orran Ainmire (4/10/2007 9:15:00 PM)

    I apologize to all for the fact that i'm using this comment box as a means of delivering a personal message, but i feel it must be done. Okay first off... Why Whitt Bell why? Why do you pollute the msg boards of a website dedicated to poetry and poets alike with phrases of 'i hate this guy, i think all poetry is stupid.'
    Its obvious you don't understand the greater meaning behind written works of literature and, in turn, it shows that your an illiterate twit who is a prime example of ignorance everywhere. Your kind infest the world and, like a parasite, feast on the living Word of others while producing nothing of your own. You are a hypocrite and a louse; you should spout your words of stupidity elsewhere. Leave us in peace.

  • Whitt Bell (4/6/2007 1:45:00 PM)

    I don't know who Robert Frost is and don't care. I think his poetry and everybody elses is stupid. I hate poetry.

  • Jill Paterson (1/16/2007 8:34:00 PM)

    Frost is one of my favorite poets. Among the likes of William Wordsworth and Margaret Atwood I prefer Frost as he strikes a good balance between the irrationality of the romantic era and the cold, harsh but realistic nature of life itself.

  • Vikram Aarella - The Poem Shooter (6/1/2006 2:45:00 PM)

    Robert Frost has written some very good poems.

Come In

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

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