Robert Frost
Robert Frost
Robert Lee Frostwas an American poet. His work was initially published in England before it was published in America. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. His work frequently employed settings from rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes. One of the most popular and critically respected American poets of the twentieth century, Frost was honored frequently...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth26 March 1874
CitySan Francisco, CA
CountryUnited States of America
Meditate nothing. Learn to contemplate. Contemplate glory. There will be a light. Contemplate Truth until it burns your eyes out.
To Time it never seems that he is brave To set himself against the peaks of snow To lay them level with the running wave, Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low, But only grave, contemplative and grave.
What is this talked-of mystery of birth. But being mounted bareback on the earth?
Freud was way off base in considering sex the fundamental motivation. The ruling passion in men is minding each other's business.
Don't be agnostic - be something.
I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?
One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.
The style is the man. Rather say the style is the way the man takes himself; and to be at all charming or even bearable, the way is almost rigidly prescribed. If it is with outer seriousness, it must be with inner humor. If it is with outer humor, it must be with inner seriousness. No other way will do.
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been - alone, As all must be, I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart.
I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.
Heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in position to look too close.