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"To market 'tis our destiny to go."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Build Soil." |
"I verily believe
My fair impression may
Be all from that one day
No shadow crossed but ours...."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Happiness Makes Up in Height for What It Lacks in Length." |
"Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.'"
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Mending Wall (l. 32-36). . .
The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt. |
"Somewhere must be the grave of the young boy
Who married her for playmate more than helpmate,
And sometimes laughed at what it was between them."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Place for a Third." |
""Why wouldn't it scare me to have a fire
Begin in smudge with ropy smoke, and know
That still, if I repent, I may recall it,
But in a moment not: a little spurt
Of burning fatness, and then nothing but
The fire itself can put it out, and that
By burning out....""
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Bonfire." |
"We can't appraise the time in which we act.
But for the folly of it, let's pretend
We know enough to know it for adverse.
One more millennium's about to end."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Lesson for Today." |
"The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes...."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Trial by Existence." |
"Far as we aim our signs to reach,
Far as we often make them reach,
Across the soul-from-soul abyss,
There is an aeon-limit set
Beyond which they are doomed to miss."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Missive Missile." |
"There's no such thing as socialism pure
Except as an abstraction of the mind.
There's only democratic socialism,
Monarchic socialism, oligarchic
The last being what they seem to have in Russia."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Build Soil." |
""There's something I should like to ask you, dear."
"You don't know how to ask it."
"Help me, then."
Her fingers moved the latch for all reply."
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Home Burial." |
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