Treasure Island

Robert Frost

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

Comments about Robert Frost

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  • Adrian Bouchet (3/13/2014 7:03:00 AM)

    Does anyone know the name of the Frost poem about a woodsman/woodcutter type person who was quiet and kept himself away from the others, but who had a beautiful bride who nobody saw.

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  • Sam Salvador (1/15/2014 10:33:00 AM)

    Billy Joel is right Robert Frost Is a Way better poet.

  • Billy Joel (12/17/2013 7:54:00 AM)

    better than maya angelou i believe

  • Billy Joel (12/17/2013 7:40:00 AM)

    The Road not taken is way better than that other poem by maya angelou

  • Phil Collins (12/17/2013 7:33:00 AM)

    wow this is one kickass poem, you really need to pass that maya angelHO lady though

  • Wahab Abdul (12/12/2013 12:08:00 AM)

    The concise, laconic, perfect and perfectly savage Fire and Ice, the antithesis of the long-winded New Hampshire, belongs with the apocalyptic Once by the Pacific. The alternatives in the title represent passion and hatred, two ways of destroying the world. The poem was inspired by a passage in Canto 32 of Dante's Inferno, in which the betrayers of their own kind are plunged, while in a fiery hell, up to their necks in ice: a lake so bound with ice, / It did not took like water, but like a glass... right clear / I saw, where sinners are preserved in ice. The last, understated word in Frost's poem, suffice, clinches the meaning (like difference in The Road Not Taken) by rhyming with the two lines that end in ice and enclosing that thematic word within itself

  • Christopher Amati (9/26/2013 8:24:00 AM)

    Frost is a great American poet. The best? I wouldn't know how to choose between Hart Crane, Robert Lowell, Wallace Stevens, Elizabeth Bishop, Ezra Pound and Frost, even counting Eliot as the Englishman he wanted to be.

  • p.a. noushad (9/7/2013 12:03:00 AM)

    Your verses give the insight of life through the nature and experiences.

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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