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