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

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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