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. October 1/13/2003
82. On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations 1/3/2003
83. Once By The Pacific 1/3/2003
84. One Step Backward Taken 1/3/2003
85. Out, Out 1/3/2003
86. Pan With Us 1/13/2003
87. Paul's Wife 2/3/2015
88. Place For A Third 2/2/2015
89. Plowmen 1/13/2003
90. Provide, Provide 1/3/2003
91. Putting In The Seed 1/13/2003
92. Quandary 4/24/2003
93. Range-Finding 1/3/2003
94. Reluctance 1/13/2003
95. Revelation 1/3/2003
96. Rose Pogonias 1/13/2003
97. Spoils Of The Dead 3/29/2010
98. Spring Pools 1/3/2003
99. Stars 1/3/2003
100. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening 1/3/2003
101. Storm Fear 3/30/2010
102. The Aim Was Song 1/3/2003
103. The Armful 1/13/2003
104. The Axe-Helve 3/29/2010
105. The Bear 1/13/2003
106. The Birthplace 5/14/2015
107. The Black Cottage 3/29/2010
108. The Bonfire 3/29/2010
109. The Code—heroics 3/29/2010
110. The Cow In Apple-Time 1/13/2003
111. The Death Of The Hired Man 1/3/2003
112. The Demiurge's Laugh 1/3/2003
113. The Door In The Dark 1/27/2015
114. The Exposed Nest 1/13/2003
115. The Fear 3/29/2010
116. The Flood 12/10/2015
117. The Flower Boat 1/13/2003
118. The Freedom Of The Moon 2/2/2015
119. The Generations of Men 5/16/2015
120. The Gift Outright 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

[Hata Bildir]