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. Lodged 11/21/2014
42. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
43. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
44. Acceptance 3/10/2016
45. A Peck of Gold 2/14/2016
46. A Star In A Stoneboat 1/15/2015
47. The Onset 1/8/2015
48. The Peaceful Shepherd 12/4/2014
49. The Freedom Of The Moon 2/2/2015
50. The Master Speed 9/14/2013
51. Blue-Butterfly Day 12/12/2014
52. A Girl's Garden 2/3/2015
53. An Encounter 3/11/2016
54. In Equal Sacrifice 3/29/2010
55. The Code—heroics 3/29/2010
56. The Axe-Helve 3/29/2010
57. Iota Subscript 3/30/2010
58. In A Vale 3/29/2010
59. The Black Cottage 3/29/2010
60. Waiting -- Afield At Dusk 3/29/2010
61. The Objection To Being Stepped On 3/29/2010
62. The Bonfire 3/29/2010
63. The Oft-Repeated Dream 3/30/2010
64. What Fifty Said.. 3/29/2010
65. The Hill Wife 1/3/2003
66. Iris By Night 3/30/2010
67. The Fear 3/29/2010
68. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
69. Unharvested 3/8/2011
70. Plowmen 1/13/2003
71. The Impulse 3/29/2010
72. Range-Finding 1/3/2003
73. Putting In The Seed 1/13/2003
74. Pan With Us 1/13/2003
75. The Mountain 3/29/2010
76. Departmental 3/29/2010
77. One Step Backward Taken 1/3/2003
78. The Gum-Gatherer 1/13/2003
79. The Need Of Being Versed In Country Things 1/3/2003
80. The Line-Gang 1/13/2003
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

A Time To Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall

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