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Best Famous Robert Frost Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Robert Frost poems. This is a select list of the best famous Robert Frost poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Robert Frost poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Robert Frost poems.

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by 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 marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

by Delmore Schwartz | |

He Knows All There Is To Know. Now He Is Acquainted With The Day And Night

 (Robert Frost, 1875-1963) 

Whose wood this is I think I know:
He made it sacred long ago:
He will expect me, far or near
To watch that wood immense with snow.
That famous horse must feel great fear Now that his noble rider's no longer here: He gives his harness bells to rhyme --Perhaps he will be back, in time? All woulds were promises he kept Throughout the night when others slept: Now that he knows all that he did not know, His wood is holy, and full of snow, and all the beauty he made holy long long ago In Boston, London, Washington, And once by the Pacific and once in Moscow: and now, and now upon the fabulous blue river ever or singing from a great white bough And wherever America is, now as before, and now as long, long ago He sleeps and wakes forever more! "0 what a metaphysical victory The first day and night of death must be!"

by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 38: The Russian grin bellows his condolence

 The Russian grin bellows his condolence
tó the family: ah but it's Kay,
& Ted, & Chris & Anne,
Henry thinks of: who eased his fearful way
from here, in here, to there.
This wants thought.
I won't make it out.
Maybe the source of noble such may come clearer to dazzled Henry.
It may come.
I'd say it will come with pain, in mystery.
I'd rather leave it alone.
I do leave it alone.
And down with the listener.
Now he has become, abrupt, an industry.
Professional-Friends-Of-Robert-Frost all over gap wide their mouths while the quirky medium of so many truths is quiet.
Let's be quiet.
Let us listen: —What for, Mr Bones? —while he begins to have it out with Horace.

More great poems below...

by Robert Frost | |


 The battle rent a cobweb diamond-strung
And cut a flower beside a ground bird's nest
Before it stained a single human breast.
The stricken flower bent double and so hung.
And still the bird revisited her young.
A butterfly its fall had dispossessed A moment sought in air his flower of rest, Then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung.
On the bare upland pasture there had spread O'ernight 'twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread And straining cables wet with silver dew.
A sudden passing bullet shook it dry.
The indwelling spider ran to greet the fly, But finding nothing, sullenly withdrew.

by Robert Frost | |

To E.T.

 I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First solider, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.
I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained-- And one thing more that was not then to say: The Victory for what it lost and gained.
You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day The war seemed over more for you than me, But now for me than you--the other way.
How ever, though, for even me who knew The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine, If I was not speak of it to you And see you pleased once more with words of mine?

by Robert Frost | |

A Cliff Dwelling

 There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye Unless in the horizon rim, Some halfway up the limestone wall, That spot of black is not a stain Or shadow, but a cavern hole, Where someone used to climb and crawl To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul The disappearing last of him And of his race starvation slim, Oh years ago -- ten thousand years.

by Robert Frost | |

A Hillside Thaw

 To think to know the country and now know
The hillside on the day the sun lets go
Ten million silver lizards out of snow!
As often as I've seen it done before
I can't pretend to tell the way it's done.
It looks as if some magic of the sun Lifted the rug that bred them on the floor And the light breaking on them made them run.
But if I though to stop the wet stampede, And caught one silver lizard by the tail, And put my foot on one without avail, And threw myself wet-elbowed and wet-kneed In front of twenty others' wriggling speed,-- In the confusion of them all aglitter, And birds that joined in the excited fun By doubling and redoubling song and twitter, I have no doubt I'd end by holding none.
It takes the moon for this.
The sun's a wizard By all I tell; but so's the moon a witch.
From the high west she makes a gentle cast And suddenly, without a jerk or twitch, She has her speel on every single lizard.
I fancied when I looked at six o'clock The swarm still ran and scuttled just as fast.
The moon was waiting for her chill effect.
I looked at nine: the swarm was turned to rock In every lifelike posture of the swarm, Transfixed on mountain slopes almost erect.
Across each other and side by side they lay.
The spell that so could hold them as they were Was wrought through trees without a breath of storm To make a leaf, if there had been one, stir.
One lizard at the end of every ray.
The thought of my attempting such a stray!

by Robert Frost | |

In Neglect

 They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom them were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With michievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.

by Robert Frost | |

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 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 For a friendly visit.

by Robert Frost | |


 How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--

As if with keeness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--

And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those starts like somw snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.

by Robert Frost | |

The Wood-Pile

 Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther- and we shall see'.
The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went through.
The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tail slim trees Too much alike to mark or name a place by So as to say for certain I was here Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me.
He was careful To put a tree between us when he lighted, And say no word to tell me who he was Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather- The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split And piled- and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting, Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken.
Clematis Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall.
I thought that only Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks Could so forget his handiwork on which He spent himself the labour of his axe, And leave it there far from a useful fireplace · To warm the frozen swamp as best it could With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

by Robert Frost | |

I Will Sing You One-O

 It was long I lay
Awake that night
Wishing that night
Would name the hour
And tell me whether
To call it day
(Though not yet light)
And give up sleep.
The snow fell deep With the hiss of spray; Two winds would meet, One down one street, One down another, And fight in a smother Of dust and feather.
I could not say, But feared the cold Had checked the pace Of the tower clock By tying together Its hands of gold Before its face.
Then cane one knock! A note unruffled Of earthly weather, Though strange and muffled.
The tower said, "One!' And then a steeple.
They spoke to themselves And such few people As winds might rouse From sleeping warm (But not unhouse).
They left the storm That struck en masse My window glass Like a beaded fur.
In that grave One They spoke of the sun And moon and stars, Saturn and Mars And Jupiter.
Still more unfettered, They left the named And spoke of the lettered, The sigmas and taus Of constellations.
They filled their throats With the furthest bodies To which man sends his Speculation, Beyond which God is; The cosmic motes Of yawning lenses.
Their solemn peals Were not their own: They spoke for the clock With whose vast wheels Theirs interlock.
In that grave word Uttered alone The utmost star Trembled and stirred, Though set so far Its whirling frenzies Appear like standing in one self station.
It has not ranged, And save for the wonder Of once expanding To be a nova, It has not changed To the eye of man On planets over Around and under It in creation Since man began To drag down man And nation nation.

by Robert Frost | |

The Exposed Nest

 You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay, Trying, I thought, to set it up on end, I went to show you how to make it stay, If that was your idea, against the breeze, And, if you asked me, even help pretend To make it root again and grow afresh.
But 'twas no make-believe with you today, Nor was the grass itself your real concern, Though I found your hand full of wilted fern, Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers.
'Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground The cutter-bar had just gone champing over (Miraculously without tasking flesh) And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right Of something interposed between their sight And too much world at once--could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred Stood up to us as to a mother-bird Whose coming home has been too long deferred, Made me ask would the mother-bird return And care for them in such a change of scene And might out meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good, But dared not spare to do the best we could Though harm should come of it; so built the screen You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared.
Why is there then No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven't any memory--have you?-- Of ever coming to the place again To see if the birds lived the first night through, And so at last to learn to use their wings.

by Robert Frost | |

The Flower Boat

 The fisherman's swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And her in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.
At anchor she rides the sunny sod As full to the gunnel of flowers growing As ever she turned her home with cod From George's bank when winds were blowing.
And I judge from that elysian freight That all they ask is rougher weather, And dory and master will sail by fate To seek the Happy Isles together.

by Robert Frost | |


 No ship of all that under sail or steam
Have gathered people to us more and more
But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dream
Has been her anxious convoy in to shore.

by Robert Frost | |

Evening in a Sugar Orchard

 From where I lingered in a lull in march
outside the sugar-house one night for choice,
I called the fireman with a careful voice
And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch:
'O fireman, give the fire another stoke,
And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.
' I thought a few might tangle, as they did, Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare Hill atmosphere not cease to glow, And so be added to the moon up there.
The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show On every tree a bucket with a lid, And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow.
The sparks made no attempt to be the moon.
They were content to figure in the trees As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades.
And that was what the boughs were full of soon.

by Robert Frost | |

In a Vale

 WHEN I was young, we dwelt in a vale
 By a misty fen that rang all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments trail
 Across the reeds to a window light.
The fen had every kind of bloom, And for every kind there was a face, And a voice that has sounded in my room Across the sill from the outer gloom.
Each came singly unto her place, But all came every night with the mist; And often they brought so much to say Of things of moment to which, they wist, One so lonely was fain to list, That the stars were almost faded away Before the last went, heavy with dew, Back to the place from which she came— Where the bird was before it flew, Where the flower was before it grew, Where bird and flower were one and the same.
And thus it is I know so well Why the flower has odor, the bird has song.
You have only to ask me, and I can tell.
No, not vainly there did I dwell, Nor vainly listen all the night long.

by Robert Frost | |

Locked Out

  As told to a child

When we locked up the house at night,
We always locked the flowers outside
And cut them off from window light.
The time I dreamed the door was tried And brushed with buttons upon sleeves, The flowers were out there with the thieves.
Yet nobody molested them! We did find one nasturtium Upon the steps with bitten stem.
I may have been to blame for that: I always thought it must have been Some Hower I played with as I sat At dusk to watch the moon down early.

by Robert Frost | |

Good-by and Keep Cold

 This saying good-by on the edge of the dark
And the cold to an orchard so young in the bark
Reminds me of all that can happen to harm
An orchard away at the end of the farm
All winter, cut off by a hill from the house.
I don't want it girdled by rabbit and mouse, I don't want it dreamily nibbled for browse By deer, and I don't want it budded by grouse.
(If certain it wouldn't be idle to call I'd summon grouse, rabbit, and deer to the wall And warn them away with a stick for a gun.
) I don't want it stirred by the heat of the sun.
(We made it secure against being, I hope, By setting it out on a northerly slope.
) No orchard's the worse for the wintriest storm; But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm.
'How often already you've had to be told, Keep cold, young orchard.
Good-by and keep cold.
Dread fifty above more than fifty below.
' I have to be gone for a season or so.
My business awhile is with different trees, less carefully nurtured, less fruitful than these, And such as is done to their wood with an ax-- Maples and birches and tamaracks.
I wish I could promise to lie in the night And think of an orchard's arboreal plight When slowly (and nobody comes with a light) Its heart sinks lower under the sod.
But something has to be left to God.

by Robert Frost | |

Wind and Window Flower

 LOVERS, forget your love,
 And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
 And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil Was melted down at noon, And the cagèd yellow bird Hung over her in tune, He marked her through the pane, He could not help but mark, And only passed her by, To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind, Concerned with ice and snow, Dead weeds and unmated birds, And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill, He gave the sash a shake, As witness all within Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed To win her for the flight From the firelit looking-glass And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside And thought of naught to say, And morning found the breeze A hundred miles away.

by Robert Frost | |

Once By The Pacific

 The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in, And thought of doing something to the shore That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies, Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff, The cliff in being backed by continent; It looked as if a night of dark intent Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.

by Robert Frost | |

Meeting and Passing

 As I went down the hill along the wall
There was a gate I had leaned at for the view
And had just turned from when I first saw you
As you came up the hill.
We met.
But all We did that day was mingle great and small Footprints in summer dust as if we drew The figure of our being less that two But more than one as yet.
Your parasol Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust.
And all the time we talked you seemed to see Something down there to smile at in the dust.
(Oh, it was without prejudice to me!) Afterward I went past what you had passed Before we met and you what I had passed.

by Robert Frost | |


 All crying, 'We will go with you, O Wind!'
The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;
But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
And they end by bidding them as they go,
And they end by bidding him stay with them.
Since ever they flung abroad in spring The leaves had promised themselves this flight, Who now would fain seek sheltering wall, Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.
And now they answer his summoning blast With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir, Or at utmost a little reluctant whirl That drops them no further than where they were.
I only hope that when I am free As they are free to go in quest Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life It may not seem better to me to rest.

by Robert Frost | |

Pea Brush

 I WALKED down alone Sunday after church
 To the place where John has been cutting trees
To see for myself about the birch
 He said I could have to bush my peas.
The sun in the new-cut narrow gap Was hot enough for the first of May, And stifling hot with the odor of sap From stumps still bleeding their life away.
The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrill Wherever the ground was low and wet, The minute they heard my step went still To watch me and see what I came to get.
Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!— All fresh and sound from the recent axe.
Time someone came with cart and pair And got them off the wild flower’s backs.
They might be good for garden things To curl a little finger round, The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings, And lift themselves up off the ground.
Small good to anything growing wild, They were crooking many a trillium That had budded before the boughs were piled And since it was coming up had to come.

by Robert Frost | |

Spring Pools

 These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods -- Let them think twice before they use their powers To blot out and drink up and sweep away These flowery waters and these watery flowers From snow that melted only yesterday.