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.
121. My November Guest 1/3/2003
122. Fragmentary Blue 1/13/2003
123. Home Burial 1/13/2003
124. Leaves Compared With Flowers 1/3/2003
125. My Butterfly 1/13/2003
126. Provide, Provide 1/3/2003
127. But Outer Space 1/3/2003
128. Now Close The Windows 1/13/2003
129. Into My Own 1/13/2003
130. The Sound Of Trees 1/3/2003
131. The Telephone 1/13/2003
132. Good-Bye, And Keep Cold 1/3/2003
133. Spring Pools 1/3/2003
134. Going For Water 1/13/2003
135. Bond And Free 1/13/2003
136. God's Garden 3/29/2010
137. Once By The Pacific 1/3/2003
138. Mowing 1/13/2003
139. The Soldier 1/3/2003
140. Evening In A Sugar Orchard 1/13/2003
141. Flower-Gathering 1/13/2003
142. The Aim Was Song 1/3/2003
143. The Tuft Of Flowers 1/3/2003
144. October 1/13/2003
145. Revelation 1/3/2003
146. Two Tramps In Mud Time 1/3/2003
147. The Pasture 1/3/2003
148. Carpe Diem 3/29/2010
149. Neither Out Far Nor In Deep 1/3/2003
150. Come In 1/3/2003
151. Gathering Leaves 1/13/2003
152. Never Again Would Bird's Song Be The Same 1/3/2003
153. The Gift Outright 1/3/2003
154. Stars 1/3/2003
155. Out, Out 1/3/2003
156. Tree At My Window 1/3/2003
157. Ghost House 1/13/2003
158. "In White": Frost's Early Version Of Design 1/13/2003
159. Fireflies In The Garden 1/3/2003
160. Design 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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