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

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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