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. "In White": Frost's Early Version Of Design 1/13/2003
2. A Boundless Moment 1/13/2003
3. A Brook In The City 1/13/2003
4. A Cliff Dwelling 1/3/2003
5. A Considerable Speck 1/3/2003
6. A Dream Pang 1/3/2003
7. A Girl's Garden 2/3/2015
8. A Late Walk 1/3/2003
9. A Line-Storm Song 1/3/2003
10. A Minor Bird 1/13/2003
11. A Patch Of Old Snow 1/3/2003
12. A Prayer In Spring 1/3/2003
13. A Question 1/3/2003
14. A Servant To Servants 1/13/2003
15. A Soldier 1/13/2003
16. A Star In A Stoneboat 1/15/2015
17. A Time To Talk 1/3/2003
18. Acquainted With The Night 1/3/2003
19. After Apple Picking 1/3/2003
20. An Old Man's Winter Night 1/3/2003
21. Asking For Roses 1/3/2003
22. Bereft 1/3/2003
23. Birches 1/3/2003
24. Blueberries 3/29/2010
25. Blue-Butterfly Day 12/12/2014
26. Bond And Free 1/13/2003
27. But Outer Space 1/3/2003
28. Canis Major 3/29/2010
29. Carpe Diem 3/29/2010
30. Christmas Trees 3/29/2010
31. Come In 1/3/2003
32. Departmental 3/29/2010
33. Desert Places 1/3/2003
34. Design 1/3/2003
35. Devotion 1/3/2003
36. Directive 6/26/2015
37. Dust Of Snow 1/3/2003
38. Evening In A Sugar Orchard 1/13/2003
39. Fire And Ice 1/3/2003
40. Fireflies In The Garden 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.

[Hata Bildir]