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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 Robert Frost |

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs.
The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side.
It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors.
" Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.
" I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself.
I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors.
"


by Robert Frost |

Stars

 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 |

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 |

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 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 |

A Fountain a Bottle a Donkeys Ears and Some Books

 Old Davis owned a solid mica mountain
In Dalton that would someday make his fortune.
There'd been some Boston people out to see it: And experts said that deep down in the mountain The mica sheets were big as plate-glass windows.
He'd like to take me there and show it to me.
"I'll tell you what you show me.
You remember You said you knew the place where once, on Kinsman, The early Mormons made a settlement And built a stone baptismal font outdoors— But Smith, or someone, called them off the mountain To go West to a worse fight with the desert.
You said you'd seen the stone baptismal font.
Well, take me there.
" Someday I will.
" "Today.
" "Huh, that old bathtub, what is that to see? Let's talk about it.
" "Let's go see the place.
" 'To shut you up I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll find that fountain if it takes all summer, And both of our united strengths, to do it.
" "You've lost it, then?" "Not so but I can find it.
No doubt it's grown up some to woods around it.
The mountain may have shifted since I saw it In eighty-five.
" "As long ago as that?" "If I remember rightly, it had sprung A leak and emptied then.
And forty years Can do a good deal to bad masonry.
You won't see any Mormon swimming in it.
But you have said it, and we're off to find it.
Old as I am, I'm going to let myself Be dragged by you all over everywhere——" "I thought you were a guide.
” "I am a guide, And that's why I can't decently refuse you.
" We made a day of it out of the world, Ascending to descend to reascend.
The old man seriously took his bearings, And spoke his doubts in every open place.
We came out on a look-off where we faced A cliff, and on the cliff a bottle painted, Or stained by vegetation from above, A likeness to surprise the thrilly tourist.
"Well, if I haven't brought you to the fountain, At least I've brought you to the famous Bottle.
" "I won't accept the substitute.
It's empty.
” "So's everything.
" "I want my fountain.
" "I guess you'd find the fountain just as empty.
And anyway this tells me where I am.
” "Hadn't you long suspected where you were?" "You mean miles from that Mormon settlement? Look here, you treat your guide with due respect If you don't want to spend the night outdoors.
I vow we must be near the place from where The two converging slides, the avalanches, On Marshall, look like donkey's ears.
We may as well see that and save the day.
" "Don't donkey's ears suggest we shake our own?" "For God's sake, aren't you fond of viewing nature? You don't like nature.
All you like is books.
What signify a donkey's cars and bottle, However natural? Give you your books! Well then, right here is where I show you books.
Come straight down off this mountain just as fast As we can fall and keep a-bouncing on our feet.
It's hell for knees unless done hell-for-leather.
" Be ready, I thought, for almost anything.
We struck a road I didn't recognize, But welcomed for the chance to lave my shoes In dust once more.
We followed this a mile, Perhaps, to where it ended at a house I didn't know was there.
It was the kind To bring me to for broad-board paneling.
I never saw so good a house deserted.
"Excuse me if I ask you in a window That happens to be broken, Davis said.
"The outside doors as yet have held against us.
I want to introduce you to the people Who used to live here.
They were Robinsons.
You must have heard of Clara Robinson, The poetess who wrote the book of verses And had it published.
It was all about The posies on her inner windowsill, And the birds on her outer windowsill, And how she tended both, or had them tended: She never tended anything herself.
She was 'shut in' for life.
She lived her whole Life long in bed, and wrote her things in bed.
I'll show You how she had her sills extended To entertain the birds and hold the flowers.
Our business first's up attic with her books.
" We trod uncomfortably on crunching glass Through a house stripped of everything Except, it seemed, the poetess's poems.
Books, I should say!—-if books are what is needed.
A whole edition in a packing case That, overflowing like a horn of plenty, Or like the poetess's heart of love, Had spilled them near the window, toward the light Where driven rain had wet and swollen them.
Enough to stock a village library— Unfortunately all of one kind, though.
They bad been brought home from some publisher And taken thus into the family.
Boys and bad hunters had known what to do With stone and lead to unprotected glass: Shatter it inward on the unswept floors.
How had the tender verse escaped their outrage? By being invisible for what it was, Or else by some remoteness that defied them To find out what to do to hurt a poem.
Yet oh! the tempting flatness of a book, To send it sailing out the attic window Till it caught wind and, opening out its covers, Tried to improve on sailing like a tile By flying like a bird (silent in flight, But all the burden of its body song), Only to tumble like a stricken bird, And lie in stones and bushes unretrieved.
Books were not thrown irreverently about.
They simply lay where someone now and then, Having tried one, had dropped it at his feet And left it lying where it fell rejected.
Here were all those the poetess's life Had been too short to sell or give away.
"Take one," Old Davis bade me graciously.
"Why not take two or three?" "Take all you want.
" Good-looking books like that.
" He picked one fresh In virgin wrapper from deep in the box, And stroked it with a horny-handed kindness.
He read in one and I read in another, Both either looking for or finding something.
The attic wasps went missing by like bullets.
I was soon satisfied for the time being.
All the way home I kept remembering The small book in my pocket.
It was there.
The poetess had sighed, I knew, in heaven At having eased her heart of one more copy— Legitimately.
My demand upon her, Though slight, was a demand.
She felt the tug.
In time she would be rid of all her books.


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 |

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 |

Range-Finding

 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.