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. The Pauper Witch of Grafton 3/1/2016
2. New Hampshire 3/11/2016
3. Brown's Descent 1/14/2016
4. Pea Brush 3/11/2016
5. The Times Table 3/11/2016
6. I Will Sing You One-O 3/10/2016
7. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
8. The Housekeeper 3/11/2016
9. A Passing Glimpse 3/10/2016
10. The Egg and the Machine 3/11/2016
11. The Last Mowing 3/11/2016
12. The Kitchen Chimney 1/27/2016
13. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
14. Good Hours 3/10/2016
15. An Empty Threat 3/11/2016
16. A Winter Eden 3/11/2016
17. Riders 3/10/2016
18. Locked Out 3/11/2016
19. Wild Grapes 3/11/2016
20. On a Tree Fallen Across the Road 3/10/2016
21. Immigrants 6/8/2015
22. A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey's Ears, and Some Books 3/5/2016
23. The Witch of Coos 11/24/2015
24. Snow 2/23/2016
25. Directive 6/26/2015
26. The Investment 3/11/2016
27. Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight 3/10/2016
28. Atmosphere 3/11/2016
29. The Flood 12/10/2015
30. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
31. Misgiving 7/11/2015
32. Dust in the Eyes 3/11/2016
33. The Runaway 3/10/2016
34. Sand Dunes 3/10/2016
35. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
36. Maple 6/24/2015
37. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
38. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
39. The Most Of It 12/17/2014
40. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
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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