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
We can make a little order where we are, and then the big sweep of history on which we can have no effect doesn't overwhelm us. We do it with colors, with a garden, with the furnishings of a room, or with sounds and words. We make a little form, and we gain composure.
Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep....
Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.
Come grow old with me, for the best is yet to come!
The best things and best people rise out of their separateness; I'm against a homogenized society because I want the cream to rise.
Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.
Don't be an agnostic. Be something.
The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.
You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father's.
A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.
I am not a teacher. I am an awakener.
My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
Nobody was ever meant, To remember or invent, What he did with every cent.