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 Road Not Taken 1/3/2003
2. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening 1/3/2003
3. Fire And Ice 1/3/2003
4. Nothing Gold Can Stay 1/3/2003
5. Acquainted With The Night 1/3/2003
6. A Late Walk 1/3/2003
7. A Question 1/3/2003
8. A Minor Bird 1/13/2003
9. A Soldier 1/13/2003
10. A Prayer In Spring 1/3/2003
11. Asking For Roses 1/3/2003
12. A Time To Talk 1/3/2003
13. A Boundless Moment 1/13/2003
14. A Brook In The City 1/13/2003
15. After Apple Picking 1/3/2003
16. Mending Wall 1/3/2003
17. A Patch Of Old Snow 1/3/2003
18. A Cliff Dwelling 1/3/2003
19. A Considerable Speck 1/3/2003
20. Bereft 1/3/2003
21. Birches 1/3/2003
22. A Dream Pang 1/3/2003
23. Desert Places 1/3/2003
24. "In White": Frost's Early Version Of Design 1/13/2003
25. Dust Of Snow 1/3/2003
26. A Servant To Servants 1/13/2003
27. An Old Man's Winter Night 1/3/2003
28. A Line-Storm Song 1/3/2003
29. The Rose Family 1/3/2003
30. The Silken Tent 1/3/2003
31. Out, Out 1/3/2003
32. Design 1/3/2003
33. Devotion 1/3/2003
34. Fireflies In The Garden 1/3/2003
35. Ghost House 1/13/2003
36. The Secret Sits 1/3/2003
37. Come In 1/3/2003
38. Gathering Leaves 1/13/2003
39. Tree At My Window 1/3/2003
40. Stars 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

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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