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
Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.
It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same for love.
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round, And only by one's going slightly taut In the capriciousness of summer air Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
An idea comes as close to something for nothing as you can get.
I was under twenty when I deliberately put it to myself one night after good conversation that there are moments when we actually touch in talk what the best writing can only come near. The curse of our book language is not so much that it keeps forever to the same set phrases . . . but that it sounds forever with the same reading tones. We must go out into the vernacular for tones that haven't been brought to book.
Unless I'm wrong I but obey The urge of a song: I'm-bound-away! And I may return If dissatisfied With what I learn From having died.
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
We cannot tell some people what it is believe, partly because they are too stupid to understand, partly because we are too proudly vague to explain.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.
Don't join too many gangs. Join few if any. Join the United States and join the family- But not much in between unless a college.
It's God - I recognised him from Blake's picture.
There are three things, after all, that a poem must reach: the eye, the ear, and what we may call the heart or the mind. It is the most important of all to reach the heart of the reader.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
Poetry is a reaching out forward expression, an effort to find fulfillment