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