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.
1. Pea Brush 3/11/2016
2. A Passing Glimpse 3/10/2016
3. Riders 3/10/2016
4. The Times Table 3/11/2016
5. A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey's Ears, and Some Books 3/5/2016
6. The Witch of Coos 11/24/2015
7. The Last Mowing 3/11/2016
8. Immigrants 6/8/2015
9. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
10. New Hampshire 3/11/2016
11. Sand Dunes 3/10/2016
12. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
13. The Egg and the Machine 3/11/2016
14. I Will Sing You One-O 3/10/2016
15. On a Tree Fallen Across the Road 3/10/2016
16. Brown's Descent 1/14/2016
17. The Runaway 3/10/2016
18. Good Hours 3/10/2016
19. The Housekeeper 3/11/2016
20. Directive 6/26/2015
21. Atmosphere 3/11/2016
22. An Empty Threat 3/11/2016
23. The Pauper Witch of Grafton 3/1/2016
24. A Winter Eden 3/11/2016
25. Snow 2/23/2016
26. The Kitchen Chimney 1/27/2016
27. The Flood 12/10/2015
28. Locked Out 3/11/2016
29. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
30. Wild Grapes 3/11/2016
31. The Investment 3/11/2016
32. Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight 3/10/2016
33. Dust in the Eyes 3/11/2016
34. Misgiving 7/11/2015
35. Maple 6/24/2015
36. The Last Word of a Blue Bird 3/10/2016
37. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
38. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
39. A Hillside Thaw 3/11/2016
40. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
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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