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.
1. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
2. Maple -new- 6/24/2015
3. Directive -new- 6/26/2015
4. Immigrants 6/8/2015
5. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
6. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
7. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
8. The Most Of It 12/17/2014
9. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
10. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
11. A Star In A Stoneboat 1/15/2015
12. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
13. The Onset 1/8/2015
14. Lodged 11/21/2014
15. The Peaceful Shepherd 12/4/2014
16. The Freedom Of The Moon 2/2/2015
17. The Master Speed 9/14/2013
18. Blue-Butterfly Day 12/12/2014
19. A Girl's Garden 2/3/2015
20. In Equal Sacrifice 3/29/2010
21. The Code—heroics 3/29/2010
22. The Axe-Helve 3/29/2010
23. The Black Cottage 3/29/2010
24. The Bonfire 3/29/2010
25. Unharvested 3/8/2011
26. Iota Subscript 3/30/2010
27. Iris By Night 3/30/2010
28. The Oft-Repeated Dream 3/30/2010
29. The Objection To Being Stepped On 3/29/2010
30. Waiting -- Afield At Dusk 3/29/2010
31. In A Vale 3/29/2010
32. What Fifty Said.. 3/29/2010
33. Departmental 3/29/2010
34. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
35. The Fear 3/29/2010
36. The Mountain 3/29/2010
37. The Line-Gang 1/13/2003
38. The Impulse 3/29/2010
39. Plowmen 1/13/2003
40. Range-Finding 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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