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. The Lockless Door 1/3/2003
122. The Master Speed 9/14/2013
123. The Most Of It 12/17/2014
124. The Mountain 3/29/2010
125. The Need Of Being Versed In Country Things 1/3/2003
126. The Objection To Being Stepped On 3/29/2010
127. The Oft-Repeated Dream 3/30/2010
128. The Onset 1/8/2015
129. The Oven Bird 1/3/2003
130. The Pasture 1/3/2003
131. The Peaceful Shepherd 12/4/2014
132. The Road Not Taken 1/3/2003
133. The Rose Family 1/3/2003
134. The Secret Sits 1/3/2003
135. The Silken Tent 1/3/2003
136. The Soldier 1/3/2003
137. The Sound Of Trees 1/3/2003
138. The Span Of Life 1/13/2003
139. The Star Splitter 1/3/2003
140. The Telephone 1/13/2003
141. The Trial By Existence 1/13/2003
142. The Tuft Of Flowers 1/3/2003
143. The Vanishing Red 1/13/2003
144. The Vantage Point 1/13/2003
145. The Wood-Pile 1/3/2003
146. They Were Welcome To Their Belief 1/3/2003
147. To E.T. 1/3/2003
148. To Earthward 1/3/2003
149. To The Thawing Wind 1/13/2003
150. Tree At My Window 1/3/2003
151. Two Look At Two 1/3/2003
152. Two Tramps In Mud Time 1/3/2003
153. Unharvested 3/8/2011
154. Waiting -- Afield At Dusk 3/29/2010
155. What Fifty Said.. 3/29/2010
156. Wind And Window Flower 3/29/2010
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

Out, Out

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.

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