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.
81. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
82. The Line-Gang 1/13/2003
83. Spoils Of The Dead 3/29/2010
84. In Neglect 1/13/2003
85. The Gum-Gatherer 1/13/2003
86. Meeting And Passing 1/13/2003
87. In A Poem 1/20/2003
88. Quandary 4/24/2003
89. Not To Keep 1/3/2003
90. The Exposed Nest 1/13/2003
91. For Once, Then, Something 1/3/2003
92. The Flower Boat 1/13/2003
93. The Vanishing Red 1/13/2003
94. In Hardwood Groves 1/13/2003
95. To E.T. 1/3/2003
96. The Bear 1/13/2003
97. They Were Welcome To Their Belief 1/3/2003
98. The Cow In Apple-Time 1/13/2003
99. The Oven Bird 1/3/2003
100. In A Disused Graveyard 1/3/2003
101. The Trial By Existence 1/13/2003
102. The Vantage Point 1/13/2003
103. Christmas Trees 3/29/2010
104. Rose Pogonias 1/13/2003
105. Blueberries 3/29/2010
106. Love And A Question 1/13/2003
107. Reluctance 1/13/2003
108. Canis Major 3/29/2010
109. Two Look At Two 1/3/2003
110. The Star Splitter 1/3/2003
111. Storm Fear 3/30/2010
112. Wind And Window Flower 3/29/2010
113. The Span Of Life 1/13/2003
114. To The Thawing Wind 1/13/2003
115. My November Guest 1/3/2003
116. The Armful 1/13/2003
117. Into My Own 1/13/2003
118. To Earthward 1/3/2003
119. Good-Bye, And Keep Cold 1/3/2003
120. The Lockless Door 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

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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