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
Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun.
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.
Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun. It is this backward motion toward the source, Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in, The tribute of the current to the source. It is from this in nature we are from. It is most us.
Nothing not built with hands of course is sacred. But here is not a question of what's sacred; Rather of what to face or run away from. I'd hate to be a runaway from nature.
It was far in the sameness of the wood; I was running with joy on the Demon's trail, Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep....
I've had a lover's quarrel with the world
Oh I kept the first for another dayYet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if should ever come back.
It looked as if a night of dark intentWas coming, and not only a night, an age.Someone had better be prepared for rage.There would be more than ocean-water brokenBefore God's last 'Put out the Light' was spoken
Skepticism,'' is that anything more than we used to mean when we said, ''Well, what have we here?'
''Skepticism,'' is that anything more than we used to mean when we said, ''Well, what have we here?''
So dawn goes down to day/ Nothing gold can stay.
The land was ours before we were the land s. She was our land more than a hundred years before we were her people.