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 Last Mowing 3/11/2016
2. Sitting by a Bush in Broad Sunlight 3/10/2016
3. Brown's Descent 1/14/2016
4. The Housekeeper 3/11/2016
5. The Pauper Witch of Grafton 3/1/2016
6. I Will Sing You One-O 3/10/2016
7. A Passing Glimpse 3/10/2016
8. Wild Grapes 3/11/2016
9. Immigrants 6/8/2015
10. The Witch of Coos 11/24/2015
11. New Hampshire 3/11/2016
12. On a Tree Fallen Across the Road 3/10/2016
13. The Investment 3/11/2016
14. The Egg and the Machine 3/11/2016
15. An Empty Threat 3/11/2016
16. The Last Word of a Blue Bird 3/10/2016
17. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
18. The Times Table 3/11/2016
19. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
20. Good Hours 3/10/2016
21. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
22. Sand Dunes 3/10/2016
23. The Kitchen Chimney 1/27/2016
24. Locked Out 3/11/2016
25. A Hillside Thaw 3/11/2016
26. Directive 6/26/2015
27. A Winter Eden 3/11/2016
28. Riders 3/10/2016
29. The Runaway 3/10/2016
30. A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey's Ears, and Some Books 3/5/2016
31. Snow 2/23/2016
32. Pea Brush 3/11/2016
33. Misgiving 7/11/2015
34. Atmosphere 3/11/2016
35. Maple 6/24/2015
36. The Flood 12/10/2015
37. Dust in the Eyes 3/11/2016
38. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
39. The Most Of It 12/17/2014
40. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
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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