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

A Time To Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall

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