Treasure Island

Robert Frost

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

Comments about Robert Frost

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  • Tom Safford (8/30/2013 10:54:00 PM)

    Some in America prefer Whitman or Dickinson, but to me, Frost is our best. Whitman had nothing to fight with Frost's turn of phrase, nor how Frost knew how to end a poem powerfully; Whitman was a crappy poet who became famous with his journal. Dickinson was a master at rhyming but lacked Frost's depth.

    Mending Wall
    The Road Not Taken
    Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Tree At My Window
    Fire and Ice
    Nothing Gold Can Stay
    Birches
    The Ax Helve
    Desert Places

    ...are all great poems. One man won the Pulitzer Prize in poetry four times. That man is Robert Frost, America's greatest poet. He rhymes (Whitman did not) , he is deep (Dickinson was not) , he coins phrases (good fences make good neighbors; nature's first green is gold; I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference... etc.) . Our best, period. Poetry should be both fun and profound... not boring and profound or entertaining and shallow. His mastery of profundity and rhyming/turn of phrase make Frost da best.

    149 person liked.
    173 person did not like.
  • Warren Jones (8/10/2013 1:07:00 PM)

    I've read many opinions of what this poem means. I think the one I like best is this one, which I lifted from Wikipedia:
    It seems fair to say that this poem is about the human tendency to look back and attribute blame to minor events in one's life, or to make more meaning of things than they may deserve.

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  • Bobby Wynn (6/23/2013 1:33:00 PM)

    Stopping by woods on a snowy evening
    Is the perfect example of his being
    Keeping it simple enough for me
    Yet revealing what makes him still the king

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  • Ghhy Hhgf (5/30/2013 8:58:00 AM)

    i love robert frost! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 1

  • Vineet Chhikara (5/27/2013 1:35:00 AM)

    Have a look at my poems... and rate them... i am sure you will like them.... :)

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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