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. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
2. Immigrants 6/8/2015
3. Directive -new- 6/26/2015
4. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
5. Maple -new- 6/24/2015
6. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
7. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
8. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
9. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
10. A Star In A Stoneboat 1/15/2015
11. The Most Of It 12/17/2014
12. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
13. Lodged 11/21/2014
14. The Onset 1/8/2015
15. The Freedom Of The Moon 2/2/2015
16. The Peaceful Shepherd 12/4/2014
17. The Master Speed 9/14/2013
18. Blue-Butterfly Day 12/12/2014
19. A Girl's Garden 2/3/2015
20. In Equal Sacrifice 3/29/2010
21. The Code—heroics 3/29/2010
22. The Axe-Helve 3/29/2010
23. The Black Cottage 3/29/2010
24. Unharvested 3/8/2011
25. Iota Subscript 3/30/2010
26. The Bonfire 3/29/2010
27. Departmental 3/29/2010
28. In A Vale 3/29/2010
29. Iris By Night 3/30/2010
30. Waiting -- Afield At Dusk 3/29/2010
31. The Objection To Being Stepped On 3/29/2010
32. The Oft-Repeated Dream 3/30/2010
33. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
34. What Fifty Said.. 3/29/2010
35. The Fear 3/29/2010
36. The Mountain 3/29/2010
37. The Impulse 3/29/2010
38. One Step Backward Taken 1/3/2003
39. Spoils Of The Dead 3/29/2010
40. Plowmen 1/13/2003
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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