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 trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods.
'Warm in December, cold in June, you say?' I don't suppose the water's changed at all. You and I know enough to know it's warm Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm. But all the fun's in how you say a thing.
But these are flowers that fly and all but sing: And now from having ridden out desire They lie closed over in the wind and cling Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.
I have just been to a city in the West, a city full of poets, a city they have made safe for poets. The whole city is so lovely that you do not have to write it up to make it poetry; it is ready-made for you. But, I don't know - the poetry written in that city might not seem like poetry if read outside of the city. It would be like the jokes made when you were drunk; you have to get drunk again to appreciate them.
Style is less the man than the way a man takes himself.
All there is to writing is having ideas. To learn to write is to learn to have ideas.
It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound-that he will never get over it.
An idea is a feat of association, and the height of it is a good metaphor.
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.
Time and tide wait for no man, but always stand still for a woman of thirty
Time and Tide wait for no man,but time always stands still for a woman of thirty.
The only way out is through.
There is no arguing with him, for if his pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the butt end of it.