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

A Time To Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall

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