Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

Robert Frost Quotes

  • ''Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
    Bring the singer, bring the nester;
    Give the buried flower a dream;
    Make the settled snowbank steam....''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "To the Thawing Wind."
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  • ''"Really, friend, I can't let you. You may need them."
    "Not till I shrink, when they'll be out of style."
    "But really I——I have so many collars."
    "I don't know who I rather would have have them.
    They're only turning yellow where they are.
    But you're the doctor, as the saying is.
    I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me...."''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Hundred Collars."
  • ''Our missiles always make too short an arc:
    They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
    The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. A Soldier (l. 8-10). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.
  • ''A brook that was the water of the house,
    Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
    Too lofty and original to rage.''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Directive (l. 50-52). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.
  • ''"... What are you seeing out the window, lady?"
    "What I'll be seeing more of in the years
    To come as here I stand and go the round
    Of many plates with towels many times."''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "In the Home Stretch."
  • ''Nations like the Cuban and the Swiss
    Can never hope to wage a Global Mission.
    No Holy Wars for them. The most the small
    Can ever give us is a nuisance brawl.''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "No Holy Wars for Them."
  • ''Hear the soft bombs of dust
    It bursts against us at the chimney mouth,
    And at the eaves. I like it from inside
    More than I shall out in it. But the horses
    Are rested and it's time to say Good-night,
    And let you get to bed again,''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Snow."
  • ''Scholars and artists thrown together are often annoyed at the puzzle of where they differ. Both work from knowledge; but I suspect they differ most importantly in the way their knowledge is come by. Scholars get theirs with conscientious thoroughness along projected lines of logic; poets theirs cavalierly and as it happens in and out of books. They stick to nothing deliberately, but let what will stick to them like burrs where they walk in the fields.''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Originally published as an introductory essay to Collected Poems (1939). "The Figure a Poem Makes," Robert Frost: Poetry and Prose, Holt, Rinehart (1972).
  • ''At last the gathered show lets down as white
    As may be in dark woods, and with a song
    It shall not make again all winter long
    Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. The Onset (l. 2-5). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.
  • ''Tree at my window, window tree,
    My sash is lowered when night comes on;
    But let there never be curtain drawn
    Between you and me.''
    Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Tree at My Window, st. 1, West-Running Brook (1928).

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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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