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