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.
41. Lodged 11/21/2014
42. Acceptance 3/10/2016
43. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
44. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
45. The Onset 1/8/2015
46. A Peck of Gold 2/14/2016
47. The Peaceful Shepherd 12/4/2014
48. A Star In A Stoneboat 1/15/2015
49. Blue-Butterfly Day 12/12/2014
50. An Encounter 3/11/2016
51. The Freedom Of The Moon 2/2/2015
52. A Girl's Garden 2/3/2015
53. The Master Speed 9/14/2013
54. In Equal Sacrifice 3/29/2010
55. The Code—heroics 3/29/2010
56. In A Vale 3/29/2010
57. The Axe-Helve 3/29/2010
58. Iota Subscript 3/30/2010
59. Iris By Night 3/30/2010
60. The Bonfire 3/29/2010
61. Waiting -- Afield At Dusk 3/29/2010
62. The Black Cottage 3/29/2010
63. The Oft-Repeated Dream 3/30/2010
64. The Objection To Being Stepped On 3/29/2010
65. The Fear 3/29/2010
66. The Hill Wife 1/3/2003
67. The Impulse 3/29/2010
68. What Fifty Said.. 3/29/2010
69. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
70. Plowmen 1/13/2003
71. Unharvested 3/8/2011
72. Departmental 3/29/2010
73. One Step Backward Taken 1/3/2003
74. Range-Finding 1/3/2003
75. Pan With Us 1/13/2003
76. The Mountain 3/29/2010
77. Hannibal 1/13/2003
78. The Need Of Being Versed In Country Things 1/3/2003
79. Putting In The Seed 1/13/2003
80. The Line-Gang 1/13/2003
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

Out, Out

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.

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