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.
81. Once By The Pacific 1/3/2003
82. One Step Backward Taken 1/3/2003
83. Out, Out 1/3/2003
84. Pan With Us 1/13/2003
85. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
86. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
87. Plowmen 1/13/2003
88. Provide, Provide 1/3/2003
89. Putting In The Seed 1/13/2003
90. Quandary 4/24/2003
91. Range-Finding 1/3/2003
92. Reluctance 1/13/2003
93. Revelation 1/3/2003
94. Rose Pogonias 1/13/2003
95. Spoils Of The Dead 3/29/2010
96. Spring Pools 1/3/2003
97. Stars 1/3/2003
98. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening 1/3/2003
99. Storm Fear 3/30/2010
100. The Aim Was Song 1/3/2003
101. The Armful 1/13/2003
102. The Axe-Helve 3/29/2010
103. The Bear 1/13/2003
104. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
105. The Black Cottage 3/29/2010
106. The Bonfire 3/29/2010
107. The Code—heroics 3/29/2010
108. The Cow In Apple-Time 1/13/2003
109. The Death Of The Hired Man 1/3/2003
110. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
111. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
112. The Exposed Nest 1/13/2003
113. The Fear 3/29/2010
114. The Flower Boat 1/13/2003
115. The Freedom Of The Moon 2/2/2015
116. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
117. The Gift Outright 1/3/2003
118. The Gum-Gatherer 1/13/2003
119. The Impulse 3/29/2010
120. 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

Come In

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

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