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
The chance is the remotest, Of its going much longer unnoticed, That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race
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
I still say the only education worth anything is self-education.
O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst...
The poet, as everyone knows, must strike his individual note sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. He may hold it a long time, or a short time, but it is then that he must strike it or never. School and college have been conducted with the almost express purpose of keeping him busy with something else till the danger of his ever creating anything is past.
There is little much beyond the grave, but the strong are saying nothing until they see.
A true sonnet goes eight lines and then takes a turn for better or worse and goes six or eight lines more.
Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow....
For dear me, why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true