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.
41. Come In 1/3/2003
42. Departmental 3/29/2010
43. Desert Places 1/3/2003
44. Design 1/3/2003
45. Devotion 1/3/2003
46. Directive 6/26/2015
47. Dust in the Eyes 3/11/2016
48. Dust Of Snow 1/3/2003
49. Evening In A Sugar Orchard 1/13/2003
50. Fire And Ice 1/3/2003
51. Fireflies In The Garden 1/3/2003
52. Flower-Gathering 1/13/2003
53. For Once, Then, Something 1/3/2003
54. Fragmentary Blue 1/13/2003
55. Gathering Leaves 1/13/2003
56. Ghost House 1/13/2003
57. God's Garden 3/29/2010
58. Going For Water 1/13/2003
59. Good Hours 3/10/2016
60. Good-Bye, And Keep Cold 1/3/2003
61. Hannibal 1/13/2003
62. Home Burial 1/13/2003
63. Hyla Brook 1/13/2003
64. I Will Sing You One-O 3/10/2016
65. Immigrants 6/8/2015
66. In A Disused Graveyard 1/3/2003
67. In A Poem 1/20/2003
68. In A Vale 3/29/2010
69. In Equal Sacrifice 3/29/2010
70. In Hardwood Groves 1/13/2003
71. In Neglect 1/13/2003
72. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
73. In White 1/1/2004
74. Into My Own 1/13/2003
75. Iota Subscript 3/30/2010
76. Iris By Night 3/30/2010
77. Leaves Compared With Flowers 1/3/2003
78. Locked Out 3/11/2016
79. Lodged 11/21/2014
80. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
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

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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