Famous poems of robert frost | Short poems of robert frost

Robert Frost: A Poet of Nature and the Human Spirit

Robert Frost (1874–1963) is one of the most celebrated American poets, known for his deep connection to rural life, nature, and the human condition. His poetry blends simplicity with profound philosophical insights, often using everyday language and rural settings to explore complex themes of life, death, choice, and isolation.

Born in San Francisco, Frost moved to New England at a young age after the death of his father. This region would later become the backdrop for much of his poetry. Although he faced many personal and professional challenges, including poverty and family tragedies, Frost’s perseverance led him to become a four-time Pulitzer Prize winner and a symbol of American literary excellence.

Frost's poems often appear straightforward, but beneath their simplicity lie deep layers of meaning. One of his most famous works, The Road Not Taken, explores the idea of choice and its lasting impact on life. Lines like "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood..." have become iconic, capturing the universal human experience of decision-making and its consequences.

Nature plays a central role in Frost's work—not as a romanticized escape, but as a mirror to human emotion and thought. In poems such as Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening and Birches, nature becomes a backdrop for reflection and philosophical inquiry. Frost saw the natural world not as separate from humanity but as intimately connected to human experience.

Stylistically, Frost favored traditional poetic forms and meter, often using blank verse and rhyme. However, he infused these forms with modern sensibilities and themes. His accessible language and vivid imagery allowed readers to connect deeply with his poetry, even when dealing with abstract or melancholic subjects.

Beyond his poetry, Frost was also a respected teacher and lecturer, and he played a significant role in shaping 20th-century American poetry. His influence extends beyond literature; his poem The Gift Outright was famously recited at President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration in 1961.

In essence, Robert Frost was a poet of contrasts: simplicity and depth, tradition and modernity, solitude and connection. His work continues to inspire readers and writers alike with its clarity, emotional power, and timeless relevance. Through his keen observation of both the natural world and the inner workings of the human soul, Frost carved a lasting place in the heart of American literature.

Famous poems of robert frost

A Soldier

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,

That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,

But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.

If we who sight along it round the world,

See nothing worthy to have been its mark,

It is because like men we look too near,

Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,

Our missiles always make too short an arc.

They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect

The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;

They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.

But this we know, the obstacle that checked

And tripped the body, shot the spirit on

Further than target ever showed or shone.

Asking For Roses

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,

With doors that none but the wind ever closes,

Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;

It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;

'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'

'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,

'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly

There in the hush of the wood that reposes,

And turn and go up to the open door boldly,

And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'

'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.

'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!

'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

'A word with you, that of the singer recalling—

Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is

A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,

And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining

(Not caring so very much what she supposes),

There when she comes on us mistily shining

And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

A Minor Bird, by Robert Frost

I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song.

A Boundless Moment

He halted in the wind, and — what was that

Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?

He stood there bringing March against his thought,

And yet too ready to believe the most.

"Oh, that's the Paradise-in-bloom," I said;

And truly it was fair enough for flowers

had we but in us to assume in march

Such white luxuriance of May for ours.

We stood a moment so in a strange world,

Myself as one his own pretense deceives;

And then I said the truth (and we moved on).

A young beech clinging to its last year's leaves.

A Minor Bird

I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song.

A Peck of Gold

Dust always blowing about the town,

Except when sea-fog laid it down,

And I was one of the children told

Some of the blowing dust was gold.

All the dust the wind blew high

Appeared like god in the sunset sky,

But I was one of the children told

Some of the dust was really gold.

Such was life in the Golden Gate:

Gold dusted all we drank and ate,

And I was one of the children told,

'We all must eat our peck of gold.'

An Encounter

ONCE on the kind of day called "weather breeder,"

When the heat slowly hazes and the sun

By its own power seems to be undone,

I was half boring through, half climbing through

A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil of cedar

And scurf of plants, and weary and over-heated,

And sorry I ever left the road I knew,

I paused and rested on a sort of hook

That had me by the coat as good as seated,

And since there was no other way to look,

Looked up toward heaven, and there against the blue,

Stood over me a resurrected tree,

A tree that had been down and raised again—

A barkless spectre. He had halted too,

As if for fear of treading upon me.

I saw the strange position of his hands—

Up at his shoulders, dragging yellow strands

Of wire with something in it from men to men.

"You here?" I said. "Where aren't you nowadays

And what's the news you carry—if you know?

And tell me where you're off for—Montreal?

Me? I'm not off for anywhere at all.

Sometimes I wander out of beaten ways

Half looking for the orchid Calypso."

A Girl's Garden

A neighbor of mine in the village

Likes to tell how one spring

When she was a girl on the farm, she did

A childlike thing.

One day she asked her father

To give her a garden plot

To plant and tend and reap herself,

And he said, 'Why not?'

In casting about for a corner

He thought of an idle bit

Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,

And he said, 'Just it.'

And he said, 'That ought to make you

An ideal one-girl farm,

And give you a chance to put some strength

On your slim-jim arm.'

It was not enough of a garden

Her father said, to plow;

So she had to work it all by hand,

But she don't mind now.

She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow

Along a stretch of road;

But she always ran away and left

Her not-nice load,

And hid from anyone passing.

And then she begged the seed.

She says she thinks she planted one

Of all things but weed.

A hill each of potatoes,

Radishes, lettuce, peas,

Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,

And even fruit trees.

And yes, she has long mistrusted

That a cider-apple

In bearing there today is hers,

Or at least may be.

Her crop was a miscellany

When all was said and done,

A little bit of everything,

A great deal of none.

Now when she sees in the village

How village things go,

Just when it seems to come in right,

She says, 'I know!

'It's as when I was a farmer...'

Oh never by way of advice!

And she never sins by telling the tale

To the same person twice.

A Passing Glimpse

To Ridgely Torrence

On Last Looking into His 'Hesperides'

I often see flowers from a passing car

That are gone before I can tell what they are.

I want to get out of the train and go back

To see what they were beside the track.

I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't;

Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt-

Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth-

Not lupine living on sand and drouth.

Was something brushed across my mind

That no one on earth will ever find?

Heaven gives it glimpses only to those

Not in position to look too close.

A Prayer In Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away

As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,

To which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends he will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

Short poems of robert frost

Now Close the Windows

Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.

It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.

A Patch of Old Snow

There’s a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten–
If I ever read it.

A Time to Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, ‘What is it?’
No, not as there is a time talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Dust of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

A Boundless Moment

He halted in the wind, and — what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.

“Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,” I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.

We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.

A Dream Pang

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;
And to the forest edge you came one day
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
You shook your pensive head as who should say,
‘I dare not—too far in his footsteps stray—
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And tell you that I saw does still abide.
But ’tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Plowmen

A plow, they say, to plow the snow.
They cannot mean to plant it, no–
Unless in bitterness to mock
At having cultivated rock.

The Rose Family

The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple’s a rose,
And the pear is, and so’s
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only know
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose–
But were always a rose.

Fireflies in the Garden

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.

Devotion

The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean–
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.

Lodged

The rain to the wind said,
‘You push and I’ll pelt.’
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged–though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.

A Minor Bird

I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.

Immigrants

No ship of all that under sail or steam
Have gathered people to us more and more
But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dream
Has been her anxious convoy in to shore.

Hannibal

Was there even a cause too lost,
Ever a cause that was lost too long,
Or that showed with the lapse of time to vain
For the generous tears of youth and song?

Poem top Extract from ‘The Road Not Taken’

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost: Full Biography

Early Life and Education:
Robert Lee Frost was born on March 26, 1874, in San Francisco, California, to William Prescott Frost Jr., a journalist, and Isabelle Moodie, a Scottish immigrant. After his father's death from tuberculosis in 1885, the family moved to Lawrence, Massachusetts, to live with Frost's grandparents. He attended Lawrence High School, where he developed a passion for poetry and met Elinor White, his future wife.

After high school, Frost briefly attended Dartmouth College in 1892 but left within a few months. He later enrolled at Harvard University in 1897 but dropped out after two years due to health issues and financial struggles.

Early Career and Struggles:
During his early adult years, Frost worked various jobs including teaching, cobbling, and farming. His writing was initially overlooked by publishers. In 1894, he sold his first poem, "My Butterfly. An Elegy", for $15. He married Elinor White in 1895, and together they had six children, though only two outlived Frost.

Frustrated with the lack of success in America, Frost and his family moved to England in 1912, where his fortunes changed.

Breakthrough and Literary Success:
In England, Frost published his first poetry collection, A Boy’s Will (1913), followed by North of Boston (1914). These books gained critical acclaim and brought him recognition. Upon returning to the United States in 1915, Frost was already considered a rising star in American poetry.

He taught at several institutions including Amherst College and Bread Loaf School of English, and became a popular public speaker and poet-in-residence.

Major Works and Themes:
Robert Frost’s poetry is deeply rooted in New England life, nature, and human psychology. He used traditional forms but infused them with modern themes. Some of his most famous poems include:

• The Road Not Taken
• Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
• Birches
• Mending Wall
• Fire and Ice

Frost's themes often explore isolation, choice, conflict, death, and the passage of time, all expressed in accessible language and imagery.

Awards and Honors:
Frost won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times (1924, 1931, 1937, 1943)—a record for any American poet. He also received over 40 honorary degrees. In 1961, he was asked to recite his poem "The Gift Outright" at John F. Kennedy's presidential inauguration, becoming a cultural icon.

Later Life and Death:
Despite his fame, Frost’s personal life was marked by sorrow. He lost his wife in 1938 and several of his children to illness and suicide. Still, he continued writing and lecturing until his last years.

Robert Frost died on January 29, 1963, in Boston, Massachusetts, at the age of 88. He was buried in Bennington, Vermont.

Legacy:
Robert Frost remains one of America’s most beloved and studied poets. His ability to merge rural imagery with universal themes made his work timeless. His voice—both gentle and wise—continues to inspire readers around the world.