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

A Time To Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall

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