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.
161. A Line-Storm Song 1/3/2003
162. Tree At My Window 1/3/2003
163. "In White": Frost's Early Version Of Design 1/13/2003
164. A Servant To Servants 1/13/2003
165. A Cliff Dwelling 1/3/2003
166. Bereft 1/3/2003
167. The Secret Sits 1/3/2003
168. Fireflies In The Garden 1/3/2003
169. Desert Places 1/3/2003
170. The Silken Tent 1/3/2003
171. A Considerable Speck 1/3/2003
172. Mending Wall 1/3/2003
173. An Old Man's Winter Night 1/3/2003
174. A Patch Of Old Snow 1/3/2003
175. After Apple Picking 1/3/2003
176. Birches 1/3/2003
177. A Brook In The City 1/13/2003
178. Asking For Roses 1/3/2003
179. A Boundless Moment 1/13/2003
180. A Time To Talk 1/3/2003
181. The Rose Family 1/3/2003
182. A Prayer In Spring 1/3/2003
183. A Soldier 1/13/2003
184. A Minor Bird 1/13/2003
185. A Question 1/3/2003
186. A Late Walk 1/3/2003
187. Acquainted With The Night 1/3/2003
188. Nothing Gold Can Stay 1/3/2003
189. Fire And Ice 1/3/2003
190. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening 1/3/2003
191. The Road Not Taken 1/3/2003

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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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