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. In White 1/1/2004
82. Hannibal 1/13/2003
83. The Exposed Nest 1/13/2003
84. Not To Keep 1/3/2003
85. Rose Pogonias 1/13/2003
86. In Neglect 1/13/2003
87. Spoils Of The Dead 3/29/2010
88. The Vanishing Red 1/13/2003
89. Hyla Brook 1/13/2003
90. Meeting And Passing 1/13/2003
91. Quandary 4/24/2003
92. The Star Splitter 1/3/2003
93. The Oven Bird 1/3/2003
94. The Flower Boat 1/13/2003
95. In A Poem 1/20/2003
96. The Vantage Point 1/13/2003
97. The Bear 1/13/2003
98. The Cow In Apple-Time 1/13/2003
99. For Once, Then, Something 1/3/2003
100. Storm Fear 3/30/2010
101. To E.T. 1/3/2003
102. In Hardwood Groves 1/13/2003
103. To Earthward 1/3/2003
104. They Were Welcome To Their Belief 1/3/2003
105. The Trial By Existence 1/13/2003
106. In A Disused Graveyard 1/3/2003
107. Christmas Trees 3/29/2010
108. The Death Of The Hired Man 1/3/2003
109. Blueberries 3/29/2010
110. On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations 1/3/2003
111. But Outer Space 1/3/2003
112. The Wood-Pile 1/3/2003
113. Reluctance 1/13/2003
114. Wind And Window Flower 3/29/2010
115. Canis Major 3/29/2010
116. The Armful 1/13/2003
117. The Span Of Life 1/13/2003
118. Love And A Question 1/13/2003
119. To The Thawing Wind 1/13/2003
120. The Lockless Door 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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