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.
41. Flower-Gathering 1/13/2003
42. For Once, Then, Something 1/3/2003
43. Fragmentary Blue 1/13/2003
44. Gathering Leaves 1/13/2003
45. Ghost House 1/13/2003
46. God's Garden 3/29/2010
47. Going For Water 1/13/2003
48. Good-Bye, And Keep Cold 1/3/2003
49. Hannibal 1/13/2003
50. Home Burial 1/13/2003
51. Hyla Brook 1/13/2003
52. Immigrants 6/8/2015
53. In A Disused Graveyard 1/3/2003
54. In A Poem 1/20/2003
55. In A Vale 3/29/2010
56. In Equal Sacrifice 3/29/2010
57. In Hardwood Groves 1/13/2003
58. In Neglect 1/13/2003
59. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
60. In White 1/1/2004
61. Into My Own 1/13/2003
62. Iota Subscript 3/30/2010
63. Iris By Night 3/30/2010
64. Leaves Compared With Flowers 1/3/2003
65. Lodged 11/21/2014
66. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
67. Love And A Question 1/13/2003
68. Maple -new- 6/24/2015
69. Meeting And Passing 1/13/2003
70. Mending Wall 1/3/2003
71. Mowing 1/13/2003
72. My Butterfly 1/13/2003
73. My November Guest 1/3/2003
74. Neither Out Far Nor In Deep 1/3/2003
75. Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same 1/3/2003
76. Not To Keep 1/3/2003
77. Nothing Gold Can Stay 1/3/2003
78. Now Close The Windows 1/13/2003
79. October 1/13/2003
80. On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations 1/3/2003
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

The Birthplace

Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while-

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