Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

Comments about Robert Frost

  • boi123 (12/10/2018 8:37:00 AM)

    pUmP uR mUm rjbjdhbcfejdcvkwhtf2rkjfgrjyfvqjy

    1 person liked.
    6 person did not like.
  • izzybeast230 (12/6/2018 3:05:00 PM)

    you know he is dead

  • superwoman (12/4/2018 4:35:00 PM)

    shut your face i slap you off stage you pants go to you cage im on rage
    oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

  • isabella (12/4/2018 4:28:00 PM)

    l like his poems
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  • The Mitochondria is the Powerhouse of the Cell (12/4/2018 1:09:00 PM)

    yall are dumb. please leave this website or face the consequences

  • anonymous (12/4/2018 12:48:00 PM)

    all of you people are acting like 2 year olds that is what is wrong with society.

  • The Absolute Truth. (12/1/2018 12:32:00 PM)

    your mom gay, your dad lesbian, your sister a mister, your brother a mother, your granny a tranny

  • KruKruxKid (11/29/2018 6:26:00 PM)

    this guy gay..................................

  • Bobby Shmurda (11/29/2018 2:34:00 PM)

    Ion even know why im in jail tbh. I was just talking bout murkin people and they locked my cheeks up. Big gay

  • Robert Frost (11/27/2018 12:59:00 PM)

    you guys are dumb
    noooooooobbbbbbs

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

After Apple Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples; I am drowsing off.
I cannot shake the shimmer from my sight

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