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. Love And A Question 1/13/2003
82. Maple 6/24/2015
83. Meeting And Passing 1/13/2003
84. Mending Wall 1/3/2003
85. Misgiving 7/11/2015
86. Mowing 1/13/2003
87. My Butterfly 1/13/2003
88. My November Guest 1/3/2003
89. Neither Out Far Nor In Deep 1/3/2003
90. Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same 1/3/2003
91. New Hampshire 3/11/2016
92. Not To Keep 1/3/2003
93. Nothing Gold Can Stay 1/3/2003
94. Now Close The Windows 1/13/2003
95. October 1/13/2003
96. On a Tree Fallen Across the Road 3/10/2016
97. On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations 1/3/2003
98. Once By The Pacific 1/3/2003
99. One Step Backward Taken 1/3/2003
100. Out, Out 1/3/2003
101. Pan With Us 1/13/2003
102. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
103. Pea Brush 3/11/2016
104. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
105. Plowmen 1/13/2003
106. Provide, Provide 1/3/2003
107. Putting In The Seed 1/13/2003
108. Quandary 4/24/2003
109. Range-Finding 1/3/2003
110. Reluctance 1/13/2003
111. Revelation 1/3/2003
112. Riders 3/10/2016
113. Rose Pogonias 1/13/2003
114. Sand Dunes 3/10/2016
115. Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight 3/10/2016
116. Snow 2/23/2016
117. Spoils Of The Dead 3/29/2010
118. Spring Pools 1/3/2003
119. Stars 1/3/2003
120. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening 1/3/2003
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

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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