Robert Frost Quotes

Then for a moment all there was was size, Confusion, and a roar that drowned the cries He raised against the gods in the machine.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Egg and the Machine."
The mountain stood there to be pointed at. Pasture ran up the side a little way, And then there was a wall of trees with trunks; After that only tops of trees, and cliffs Imperfectly concealed among the leaves.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Mountain."
The last step taken found your heft Decidedly upon the left. One more would throw you on the right. Another still you see your plight.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "To a Thinker."
All the way home I kept remembering The small book in my pocket. It was there.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Fountain, a Bottle, A Donkey's Ears, and Some Books."
Yes, revolutions are the only salves, But they're one thing that should be done by halves.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Semi-Revolution."
As I came to the edge of the woods, Thrush music—hark! Now if it was dusk outside, Inside it was dark.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Come In (l. 1-4). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.
Before the last went, heavy with dew, Back to the place from which she came Where the bird was before it flew, Where the flower was before it grew, Where bird and flower were one and the same.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "In a Vale."
If I must choose which I would elevate The people or the already lofty mountains, I'd elevate the already lofty mountains. The only fault I find with old New Hampshire Is that her mountains aren't quite high enough.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "New Hampshire."
We raised a simple prayer Before we left the spot, That in the general mowing That place might be forgot; Or if not all so favored, Obtain such grace of hours That none should mow the grass there While so confused with flowers.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "Rose Pogonias."
If there was one egg in it there were nine, Torpedo-like, with shell of gritty leather, All packed in sand to wait the trump together.
Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "The Egg and the Machine."