Robert Frost and His Famous Poems - Robert Frost holds a unique and almost isolated position in American letters. In a sense, Frost stands at the crossroads of 19th-century American poetry and modernism, for in his verse may be found the culmination of many 19th-century tendencies and traditions as well as parallels to the works of his 20th-century contemporaries. Taking his symbols from the public domain, Frost developed, as many critics note, an original, modern idiom and a sense of directness and economy that reflect the imagism of Ezra Pound and Amy Lowell.
Robert Frost was born to journalist father William Prescott Frost, Jr. and mother Isabelle Moodie. After William’s death in May 1885, the family moved to Lawrence, Massachusetts.
With the start of World War I, Robert Frost returned to America in 1915 and settled in New Hampshire. From 1916 onwards he joined Amherst College in Massachusetts as a teacher in English and became active in writing career. His noted work “West Running Brook”, “The Gold Hesperidee”, “From Snow to Snow” and much more came during this period.
Awards and Honors
At the End
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;
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.
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
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.
Fire And Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
I hold with those who favor fire.
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
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.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.
The Times Table
More than halfway up the pass
Was a spring with a broken drinking glass,
And whether the farmer drank or not
His mare was sure to observe the spot
By cramping the wheel on a water-bar,
turning her forehead with a star,
And straining her ribs for a monster sigh;
To which the farmer would make reply,
'A sigh for every so many breath,
And for every so many sigh a death.
Is the multiplication table of life.'
The saying may be ever so true;
But it's just the kind of a thing that you
Nor I, nor nobody else may say,
Unless our purpose is doing harm,
And then I know of no better way
To close a road, abandon a farm,
Reduce the births of the human race,
And bring back nature in people's place.
An Empty Threat
There wasn't always Hudson's Bay
And the fur trade,
A small skiff
And a paddle blade.
And me on the floor,
And a trapper looking in at the door
With furs to sell.
And between what he doesn't know
And won't tell
About where Henry Hudson's gone,
I can't say he's much help;
But we get on.
On an ice cake.
There's not a soul
For a windbreak
Between me and the North Pole—
Except always John-Joe,
My French Indian Esquimaux,
And he's off setting traps
In one himself perhaps.
Over so much bay
In snow and mist
That doesn't exist,
I was going to say,
For God, man, or beast's sake,
Yet does perhaps for all three.
What it is to him.
What it is to me,
Unless it be
It's the old captain's dark fate
Who failed to find or force a strait
In its two-thousand-mile coast;
And his crew left him where be failed,
And nothing came of all be sailed.
To such a ghost—
You and I
With the dead race of the Great Auk!'
And, 'Better defeat almost,
If seen clear,
Than life's victories of doubt
That need endless talk-talk
To make them out.'
A Winter Eden
A winter garden in an alder swamp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red.
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life's while to wake and sport.
The Door In The Dark
In going from room to room in the dark,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
And hit me a blow in the head so hard
I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don't pair any more
With what they used to pair with before.
In A Poem
The sentencing goes blithely on its way
And takes the playfully objected rhyme
As surely as it takes the stroke and time
In having its undeviable say.
Love And A Question
A stranger came to the door at eve,
And he spoke the bridegroom fair.
He bore a green-white stick in his hand,
And, for all burden, care.
For a shelter for the night,
And he turned and looked at the road afar
Without a window light.
With, 'Let us look at the sky,
And question what of the night to be,
Stranger, you and I.'
The woodbine berries were blue,
Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
'Stranger, I wish I knew.'
Bent over the open fire,
Her face rose-red with the glowing coal
And the thought of the heart's desire.
The bridegroom looked at the weary road,
Yet saw but her within,
And wished her heart in a case of gold
And pinned with a silver pin.
A dole of bread, a purse,
A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,
Or for the rich a curse;
To mar the love of two
By harboring woe in the bridal house,
The bridegroom wished he knew.