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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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Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

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.


Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.