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