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. For Once, Then, Something 1/3/2003
42. Fragmentary Blue 1/13/2003
43. Gathering Leaves 1/13/2003
44. Ghost House 1/13/2003
45. God's Garden 3/29/2010
46. Going For Water 1/13/2003
47. Good-Bye, And Keep Cold 1/3/2003
48. Hannibal 1/13/2003
49. Home Burial 1/13/2003
50. Hyla Brook 1/13/2003
51. In A Disused Graveyard 1/3/2003
52. In A Poem 1/20/2003
53. In A Vale 3/29/2010
54. In Equal Sacrifice 3/29/2010
55. In Hardwood Groves 1/13/2003
56. In Neglect 1/13/2003
57. In The Home Stretch 1/9/2015
58. In White 1/1/2004
59. Into My Own 1/13/2003
60. Iota Subscript 3/30/2010
61. Iris By Night 3/30/2010
62. Leaves Compared With Flowers 1/3/2003
63. Lodged 11/21/2014
64. Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter 5/6/2015
65. Love And A Question 1/13/2003
66. Meeting And Passing 1/13/2003
67. Mending Wall 1/3/2003
68. Mowing 1/13/2003
69. My Butterfly 1/13/2003
70. My November Guest 1/3/2003
71. Neither Out Far Nor In Deep 1/3/2003
72. Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same 1/3/2003
73. Not To Keep 1/3/2003
74. Nothing Gold Can Stay 1/3/2003
75. Now Close The Windows 1/13/2003
76. October 1/13/2003
77. On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations 1/3/2003
78. Once By The Pacific 1/3/2003
79. One Step Backward Taken 1/3/2003
80. Out, Out 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

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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