Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



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.

Search for the best famous Robert Frost poems, articles about Robert Frost poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Robert Frost poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
Written 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.


Written 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.
"


Written by Delmore Schwartz | |

All Night All Night

 "I have been one acquainted with the night" - Robert Frost


Rode in the train all night, in the sick light.
A bird Flew parallel with a singular will.
In daydream's moods and attitudes The other passengers slumped, dozed, slept, read, Waiting, and waiting for place to be displaced On the exact track of safety or the rack of accident.
Looked out at the night, unable to distinguish Lights in the towns of passage from the yellow lights Numb on the ceiling.
And the bird flew parallel and still As the train shot forth the straight line of its whistle, Forward on the taut tracks, piercing empty, familiar -- The bored center of this vision and condition looked and looked Down through the slick pages of the magazine (seeking The seen and the unseen) and his gaze fell down the well Of the great darkness under the slick glitter, And he was only one among eight million riders and readers.
And all the while under his empty smile the shaking drum Of the long determined passage passed through him By his body mimicked and echoed.
And then the train Like a suddenly storming rain, began to rush and thresh-- The silent or passive night, pressing and impressing The patients' foreheads with a tightening-like image Of the rushing engine proceeded by a shaft of light Piercing the dark, changing and transforming the silence Into a violence of foam, sound, smoke and succession.
A bored child went to get a cup of water, And crushed the cup because the water too was Boring and merely boredom's struggle.
The child, returning, looked over the shoulder Of a man reading until he annoyed the shoulder.
A fat woman yawned and felt the liquid drops Drip down the fleece of many dinners.
And the bird flew parallel and parallel flew The black pencil lines of telephone posts, crucified, At regular intervals, post after post Of thrice crossed, blue-belled, anonymous trees.
And then the bird cried as if to all of us: 0 your life, your lonely life What have you ever done with it, And done with the great gift of consciousness? What will you ever do with your life before death's knife Provides the answer ultimate and appropriate? As I for my part felt in my heart as one who falls, Falls in a parachute, falls endlessly, and feel the vast Draft of the abyss sucking him down and down, An endlessly helplessly falling and appalled clown: This is the way that night passes by, this Is the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomable abyss.


More great poems below...

Written 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!"


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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?


Written 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.


Written 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!


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.