Robert Frost

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

Robert Frost Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
1. Brown's Descent 1/14/2016
2. The Witch of Coos 11/24/2015
3. Directive 6/26/2015
4. The Pauper Witch of Grafton 3/1/2016
5. I Will Sing You One-O 3/10/2016
6. The Egg and the Machine 3/11/2016
7. The Last Mowing 3/11/2016
8. The Times Table 3/11/2016
9. The Investment 3/11/2016
10. The Flood 12/10/2015
11. New Hampshire 3/11/2016
12. Pea Brush 3/11/2016
13. The Kitchen Chimney 1/27/2016
14. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
15. Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight 3/10/2016
16. An Empty Threat 3/11/2016
17. Locked Out 3/11/2016
18. The Last Word of a Blue Bird 3/10/2016
19. A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey's Ears, and Some Books 3/5/2016
20. A Passing Glimpse 3/10/2016
21. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
22. Acceptance 3/10/2016
23. Riders 3/10/2016
24. A Winter Eden 3/11/2016
25. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
26. On a Tree Fallen Across the Road 3/10/2016
27. Sand Dunes 3/10/2016
28. Wild Grapes 3/11/2016
29. The Housekeeper 3/11/2016
30. A Hillside Thaw 3/11/2016
31. Snow 2/23/2016
32. Misgiving 7/11/2015
33. Good Hours 3/10/2016
34. Immigrants 6/8/2015
35. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
36. The Runaway 3/10/2016
37. Maple 6/24/2015
38. Atmosphere 3/11/2016
39. Dust in the Eyes 3/11/2016
40. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
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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