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"... You could sit there with the stains on your shoes
Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave
And talk about your everyday concerns.
You had stood the spade up against the wall
...
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Home Burial.
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''And as it measured in her calipers,
The mountain stood exalted in its place.
So love will take between the hands a face. . . .''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Moon Compasses."
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''I never dared be radical when young
For fear it would make me conservative when old.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Precaution, A Further Range (1936).
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"Weren't you relieved to find he wasn't dead?"
"No! and yet I don't know it's hard to say.
I went about to kill him fair enough."
"You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?"
"...
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Code."
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''Here come the line-gang pioneering by.
They throw a forest down less cut than broken.
They plant dead trees for living, and the dead
They string together with a living thread.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Line-Gang."
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He took him down below a cramping rafter,
And showed him, through a manhole in the floor,
The water in desperate straits like frantic fish,
Salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails...
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Vanishing Red."
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''The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run....''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Brook in the City."
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''Everything was there,
Every single thing
Waiting was to bring,
Clear from hydrogen
All the way to men.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Never Naught Song."
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There is no love.
There's only love of men and women, love
Of children, love of friends, of men, of God:
Divine love, human love, parental love,
Roughly discriminated for the rough...
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Build Soil."
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''Tell me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief.''
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Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Home Burial."
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The Need of Being Versed in Country
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The house had gone to bring again
To the midnight sky a sunset glow.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way,
That would have joined the house in flame
Had it been the will of the wind, was left
To bear forsaken the place's name.
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Poets
