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''The kind of Unitarian
Who having by elimination got
From many gods to Three, and Three to One,
Thinks why not taper off to none at all.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Masque of Mercy."
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''The birch begins to crack its outer sheath
Of baby green and show the white beneath....''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Young Birch."
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''They must have seen ahead what now appears:
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "For John F. Kennedy His Inauguration."
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''Don't discount our powers;
We have made a pass
At the infinite,''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Kitty Hawk."
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''But with one step backward taken
I saved myself from going.
A world torn loose went by me.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "One Step Backward Taken."
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''By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song the wind could see.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Aim Was Song."
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''Nobody was ever meant
To remember or invent
What he did with every cent.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. The Hardship of Accounting (l. 3-5). . .
The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry ...
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"... You can hear the small buzz saws whine, the big saw
Caterwaul to the hills around the village
As they both bite the wood. It's all our music.
One ought as a good villager to like i...
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Self-Seeker."
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''... in this air of withering sweetness ...''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Waiting."
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''... everyone developing
A language of his own to write his book in,
And one to cap the climax by combining
All language in a one-man tongue-confusion.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Masque of Mercy."
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Out, Out
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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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Poets
