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.
121. Storm Fear 3/30/2010
122. The Aim Was Song 1/3/2003
123. The Armful 1/13/2003
124. The Axe-Helve 3/29/2010
125. The Bear 1/13/2003
126. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
127. The Black Cottage 3/29/2010
128. The Bonfire 3/29/2010
129. The Code—heroics 3/29/2010
130. The Cow In Apple-Time 1/13/2003
131. The Death Of The Hired Man 1/3/2003
132. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
133. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
134. The Egg and the Machine 3/11/2016
135. The Exposed Nest 1/13/2003
136. The Fear 3/29/2010
137. The Flood 12/10/2015
138. The Flower Boat 1/13/2003
139. The Freedom Of The Moon 2/2/2015
140. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
141. The Gift Outright 1/3/2003
142. The Gum-Gatherer 1/13/2003
143. The Hill Wife 1/3/2003
144. The Housekeeper 3/11/2016
145. The Impulse 3/29/2010
146. The Investment 3/11/2016
147. The Kitchen Chimney 1/27/2016
148. The Last Mowing 3/11/2016
149. The Last Word of a Blue Bird 3/10/2016
150. The Line-Gang 1/13/2003
151. The Lockless Door 1/3/2003
152. The Master Speed 9/14/2013
153. The Most Of It 12/17/2014
154. The Mountain 3/29/2010
155. The Need Of Being Versed In Country Things 1/3/2003
156. The Objection To Being Stepped On 3/29/2010
157. The Oft-Repeated Dream 3/30/2010
158. The Onset 1/8/2015
159. The Oven Bird 1/3/2003
160. The Pasture 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

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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