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Robert Frost Quotes (1874-1963)
Writer, Poet
About Robert Frost
Robert Lee Frost (26 March 1874 β 29 January 1963) was an American poet; winner of four Pulitzer Prizes.
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βDeliver us from committees.β
βLove is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.β
βA liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own side in a quarrel.β
βI never dared be radical when young
For fear it would make me conservative when old.β
For fear it would make me conservative when old.β
βIn three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life β It goes on.β
βCourage is of the heart by derivation,
And great it is. But fear is of the soul.β
And great it is. But fear is of the soul.β
βIt is the future that creates his present.
All is an interminable chain of longing.β
All is an interminable chain of longing.β
βThere was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.β
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.β
βThe Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow.β
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow.β
βHer crop was a miscellany
When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything,
A great deal of none.β
When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything,
A great deal of none.β
β"Men work together," I told him from the heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."β
"Whether they work together or apart."β
βAll those who try to go it sole alone,
Too proud to be beholden for relief,
Are absolutely sure to come to grief.β
Too proud to be beholden for relief,
Are absolutely sure to come to grief.β
βPeople are inexterminable β like flies and bed-bugs. There will always be some that survive in cracks and crevices β that's us.β
βShe drew back; he was calm
"It is this that had the power,"
And he lashed his open palm
With the tender-headed flower.β
"It is this that had the power,"
And he lashed his open palm
With the tender-headed flower.β
βSummoning artists to participate
In the august occasions of the state
Seems something artists ought to celebrate.β
In the august occasions of the state
Seems something artists ought to celebrate.β
βSomething inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.β
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.β
βAsked...whether he would define poetry as "escape" he answered hardily:
"No. Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat."β
"No. Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat."β
βMy apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."β
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours."β
βThe best things and best people rise out of their separateness; I'm against a homogenized society because I want the cream to rise.β
βIt is only a moment here and a moment there that the greatest writer has. Some cognizance of the fact must be taken in your teaching.β
βOne luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.β
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.β
βThat day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.β
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.β
βThe buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.β
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.β
βBut he sent her Good-by,
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,
And look for skunk tracks
In the snow with an ax β
And do everything!β
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,
And look for skunk tracks
In the snow with an ax β
And do everything!β
βThey cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars β on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.β
Between stars β on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.β
βWhy make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue.β
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue.β
βIt must be the brook
Can trust itself to go by contraries
The way I can with you β and you with me β
Because we're β we're β I don't know
What we are.β
Can trust itself to go by contraries
The way I can with you β and you with me β
Because we're β we're β I don't know
What we are.β
βUnless I'm wrong
I but obey
The urge of a song:
I'm—bound—away! And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died.β
I but obey
The urge of a song:
I'm—bound—away! And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died.β
βSomething there is that doesnβt love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.β
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.β
βYou see the beauty of my proposal isβ―
It neednβt wait on general revolution.β―
I bid you to a one-man revolutionββ―
The only revolution that is coming.β―β
It neednβt wait on general revolution.β―
I bid you to a one-man revolutionββ―
The only revolution that is coming.β―β
βI am assured at any rate
Man's practically inexterminate.
Someday I must go into that.
There's always been an Ararat
Where someone someone else begat
To start the world all over at.β
Man's practically inexterminate.
Someday I must go into that.
There's always been an Ararat
Where someone someone else begat
To start the world all over at.β
βNo memory of having starred
Atones for later disregard,
Or keeps the end from being hard. Better to go down dignified
With boughten friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide!β
Atones for later disregard,
Or keeps the end from being hard. Better to go down dignified
With boughten friendship at your side
Than none at all. Provide, provide!β
βI shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I β
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.β
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I β
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.β
βFirst there's the children's house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad.β
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad.β
β'Twas Age imposed on poems
Their gather-roses burden
To warn against the danger
That overtaken lovers
From being overflooded
With happiness should have it
And yet not know they have it.β
Their gather-roses burden
To warn against the danger
That overtaken lovers
From being overflooded
With happiness should have it
And yet not know they have it.β
βSuch as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.β
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.β
ββMy dear,
Itβs who first thought the thought. Youβre searching, Joe,
For things that donβt exist; I mean beginnings.
Ends and beginningsβthere are no such things.
There are only middles.β
Itβs who first thought the thought. Youβre searching, Joe,
For things that donβt exist; I mean beginnings.
Ends and beginningsβthere are no such things.
There are only middles.β
βIt 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.β
βDo you know,
Considering the market, there are more
Poems produced than any other thing?
No wonder poets sometimes have to seem
So much more businesslike than businessmen.
Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.β
Considering the market, there are more
Poems produced than any other thing?
No wonder poets sometimes have to seem
So much more businesslike than businessmen.
Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.β
βMy long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.β
Toward heaven still.
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.β
βHe moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, βGood fences make good neighbours.ββ
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, βGood fences make good neighbours.ββ
βA poem...begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion finds the thought and the thought finds the words.β
βBut strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.β
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.β
βIf, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyes
Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
I'm not the one for putting off the proof.
Let it be overwhelming, off a roof
And round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,
And blind me to a standstill if it must.β
Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
I'm not the one for putting off the proof.
Let it be overwhelming, off a roof
And round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,
And blind me to a standstill if it must.β
βAs for the woods' excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.β
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.β
β Who said it mattered
What monkeys did or didn't understand?
They might not understand the burning-glass.
They might not understand the sun itself.
It's knowing what to do with things that counts.β
What monkeys did or didn't understand?
They might not understand the burning-glass.
They might not understand the sun itself.
It's knowing what to do with things that counts.β
β"New order of the ages" did they say?
If it looks none too orderly today,
'Tis a confusion it was ours to start
So in it have to take courageous part.
No one of honest feeling would approve
A ruler who pretended not to love
A turbulence he had the better of.β
If it looks none too orderly today,
'Tis a confusion it was ours to start
So in it have to take courageous part.
No one of honest feeling would approve
A ruler who pretended not to love
A turbulence he had the better of.β
βIf poetry isn't understanding all, the whole word, then it isn't worth anything. Young poets forget that poetry must include the mind as well as the emotions. Too many poets delude themselves by thinking the mind is dangerous and must be left out. Well, the mind is dangerous and must be left in.β
βIβd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earthβs the right place for love:
I donβt know where itβs likely to go better.β
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earthβs the right place for love:
I donβt know where itβs likely to go better.β
βSome say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor 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.β
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor 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.β
βI do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew β
Only more sure of all I thought was true.β
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew β
Only more sure of all I thought was true.β
βIβd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.β
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.β
βAnd this is no aristocratic joke
At the expense of negligible folk.
We see how seriously the races swarm
In their attempts at sovereignty and form.
They are our wards we think to some extent
For the time being and with their consent,
To teach them how Democracy is meant.β
At the expense of negligible folk.
We see how seriously the races swarm
In their attempts at sovereignty and form.
They are our wards we think to some extent
For the time being and with their consent,
To teach them how Democracy is meant.β
βToday is for my cause a day of days.
And his be poetry's old-fashioned praise
Who was the first to think of such a thing.
This verse that in acknowledgement I bring
Goes back to the beginning of the end
Of what had been for centuries the trend;
A turning point in modern history.β
And his be poetry's old-fashioned praise
Who was the first to think of such a thing.
This verse that in acknowledgement I bring
Goes back to the beginning of the end
Of what had been for centuries the trend;
A turning point in modern history.β
βBut yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For heaven and the futureΒ΄s sakes.β
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For heaven and the futureΒ΄s sakes.β
βThis was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny's
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage. (We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)β
Your destination and your destiny's
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage. (We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)β
βHe saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: "What is it you see
From up there always?βfor I want to know."β
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: "What is it you see
From up there always?βfor I want to know."β
βBy good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through β
Leastways for me β and then theyβll be convinced.β
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through β
Leastways for me β and then theyβll be convinced.β
βThe sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
YouΒ΄re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And youΒ΄re two months back in the middle of March.β
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
YouΒ΄re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And youΒ΄re two months back in the middle of March.β
βEverything written is as good as it is dramatic. It need not declare itself in form, but it is drama or nothing. A least lyric alone may have a hard time, but it can make a beginning, and lyric will be piled on lyric till all are easily heard as sung or spoken by a person in a scene β in character, in a setting. By whom, where and when is the question.β
βTalking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes all the pressure off the second. My mouth is sealed for the duration of my stay here. I'm not even going to write letters around to explain to collectors my not having had any Christmas card this year. I'm not going to explain anything personal any more.β
βEveryone knows the glory of the twain
Who gave America the aeroplane
To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane.
Some poor fool has been saying in his heart
Glory is out of date in life and art.
Our venture in revolution and outlawry
Has justified itself in freedom's story
Right down to now in glory upon glory.β
Who gave America the aeroplane
To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane.
Some poor fool has been saying in his heart
Glory is out of date in life and art.
Our venture in revolution and outlawry
Has justified itself in freedom's story
Right down to now in glory upon glory.β
βSo much those heroes knew and understood,
I mean the great four, Washington,
John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison
So much they saw as consecrated seers
They must have seen ahead what not appears,
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.β
I mean the great four, Washington,
John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison
So much they saw as consecrated seers
They must have seen ahead what not appears,
They would bring empires down about our ears
And by the example of our Declaration
Make everybody want to be a nation.β
βIt makes the prophet in us all presage
The glory of a next Augustan age
Of a power leading from its strength and pride,
Of young ambition eager to be tried,
Firm in our free beliefs without dismay,
In any game the nations want to play.
A golden age of poetry and power
Of which this noonday's the beginning hour.β
The glory of a next Augustan age
Of a power leading from its strength and pride,
Of young ambition eager to be tried,
Firm in our free beliefs without dismay,
In any game the nations want to play.
A golden age of poetry and power
Of which this noonday's the beginning hour.β
βYou could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.β
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent;
It looked as if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.β
βPoetry begins in trivial metaphors, pretty metaphors, "grace" metaphors, and goes on to the profoundest thinking that we have. Poetry provides the one permissible way of saying one thing and meaning another. People say, "Why donβt you say what you mean?" We never do that, do we, being all of us too much poets. We like to talk in parables and in hints and in indirections β whether from diffidence or some other instinct.β
βYou are all probably taking literature classes in which the professors teach how to get behind authors' words to determine their deeper meanings. In my case, they teach that the crow shaking snow from a hemlock tree means that evil, black, stands in contrast to the pure white good of the snow around it, like in life. They are wrong. I saw the crow, and the tree, and the snow. It was beautiful. I stopped to enjoy it. Period.β
βI have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can't find it,
So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't.
(I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.β
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can't find it,
So can't get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn't.
(I stole the goblet from the children's playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.β
βThe nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretence of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.β
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretence of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.β
βThey've tried to grasp with too much social fact
Too large a situation. You and I
Would be afraid if we should comprehend
And get outside of too much bad statistics,
Our muscles never could again contract:
We never could recover human shape,
But must live lives out mentally agape
Or die of philosophical distention.
That's how we feel β and we're no special mystics.β
Too large a situation. You and I
Would be afraid if we should comprehend
And get outside of too much bad statistics,
Our muscles never could again contract:
We never could recover human shape,
But must live lives out mentally agape
Or die of philosophical distention.
That's how we feel β and we're no special mystics.β
β'I can repeat the very words you were saying:
"Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build."
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.β
"Three foggy mornings and one rainy day
Will rot the best birch fence a man can build."
Think of it, talk like that at such a time!
What had how long it takes a birch to rot
To do with what was in the darkened parlor?
You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.β
βAnd be all plunderers curst.
'The best way to hate is the worst.
'Tis to find what the hated need,
Never mind of what actual worth,
And wipe that out of the earth.
Let them die of unsatisfied greed,
Of unsatisfied love of display,
Of unsatisfied love of the high,
Unvulgar, unsoiled, and ideal.
Let their trappings be taken away.
Let them suffer starvation and die
Of being brought down to the real.β
'The best way to hate is the worst.
'Tis to find what the hated need,
Never mind of what actual worth,
And wipe that out of the earth.
Let them die of unsatisfied greed,
Of unsatisfied love of display,
Of unsatisfied love of the high,
Unvulgar, unsoiled, and ideal.
Let their trappings be taken away.
Let them suffer starvation and die
Of being brought down to the real.β
βScholars and artists thrown together are often annoyed at the puzzle of where they differ. Both work from knowledge; but I suspect they differ most importantly in the way their knowledge is come by. Scholars get theirs with conscientious thoroughness along projected lines of logic; poets theirs cavalierly and as it happens in and out of books. They stick to nothing deliberately, but let what will stick to them like burrs where they walk in the fields.β
βO Star (the fairest one in sight)
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud β
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us that we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."β
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud β
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us that we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."β
βThere was the book of profile tales declaring
For the emboldened politicians daring
To break with followers when in the wrong,
A healthy independence of the throng,
A democratic form of right divine
To rule first answerable to high design.
There is a call to life a little sterner,
And braver for the earner, learner, yearner.
Less criticism of the field and court
And more preoccupation with the sport.β
For the emboldened politicians daring
To break with followers when in the wrong,
A healthy independence of the throng,
A democratic form of right divine
To rule first answerable to high design.
There is a call to life a little sterner,
And braver for the earner, learner, yearner.
Less criticism of the field and court
And more preoccupation with the sport.β
βI may have wept that any should have died
Or missed their chance, or not have been their best,
Or been their riches, fame, or love denied;
On me as much as any is the jest.
I take my incompleteness with the rest.
God bless himself can no one else be blessed. I hold your doctrine of Memento Mori.
And were an epitaph to be my story
I'd have a short one ready for my own.
I would have written of me on my stone:
I had a lover's quarrel with the world.β
Or missed their chance, or not have been their best,
Or been their riches, fame, or love denied;
On me as much as any is the jest.
I take my incompleteness with the rest.
God bless himself can no one else be blessed. I hold your doctrine of Memento Mori.
And were an epitaph to be my story
I'd have a short one ready for my own.
I would have written of me on my stone:
I had a lover's quarrel with the world.β
βColonial had been the thing to be
As long as the great issue was to see
What country'd be the one to dominate
By character, by tongue, by native trait,
The new world Christopher Columbus found.
The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were downed
And counted out. Heroic deeds were done.
Elizabeth the First and England won.
Now came on a new order of the ages
That in the Latin of our founding sages
(Is it not written on the dollar bill
We carry in our purse and pocket still?)β
As long as the great issue was to see
What country'd be the one to dominate
By character, by tongue, by native trait,
The new world Christopher Columbus found.
The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were downed
And counted out. Heroic deeds were done.
Elizabeth the First and England won.
Now came on a new order of the ages
That in the Latin of our founding sages
(Is it not written on the dollar bill
We carry in our purse and pocket still?)β
βBack out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry β
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there's a story in a book about it.β
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry β
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there's a story in a book about it.β
βWhen I see young men doing so wonderfully well in athletics, I don't feel angry at them. I feel jealous of them. I wish that some of my boys in writing would do the same thing. ... You must have form β performance. The thing itself is indescribable, but it is felt like athletic form. To have form, feel form in sports β and by analogy feel form in verse. One works and waits for form in both. As I said, the person who spends his time criticizing the play around him will never write poetry. He will write criticism β for the New Republic.β
βOriginality and initiative are what I ask for my country. For myself the originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have described: from delight to wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a petal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.β
βA man must partly give up being a man
With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement
By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you're a-mind to name.
Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.
Two that don't love can't live together without them.
But two that do can't live together with them."
She moved the latch a little. "Don't β don't go.
Don't carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief. I'm not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.β
With womenfolk. We could have some arrangement
By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
Anything special you're a-mind to name.
Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love.
Two that don't love can't live together without them.
But two that do can't live together with them."
She moved the latch a little. "Don't β don't go.
Don't carry it to someone else this time.
Tell me about it if it's something human.
Let me into your grief. I'm not so much
Unlike other folks as your standing there
Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.β
βI own any form of humor shows fear and inferiority. Irony is simply a kind of guardedness. So is a twinkle. It keeps the reader from criticism. Whittier, when he shows any style at all is probably a greater person than Longfellow as he is lifted priestlike above consideration of the scornful. Belief is better than anything else, and it is best when rapt, above paying its respects to anybody's doubt whatsoever. At bottom the world isn't a joke. We only joke about it to avoid an issue with someone to let someone know that we know he's there with his questions: to disarm him by seeming to have heard and done justice to this side of the standing argument. Humor is the most engaging cowardice.β
βThere is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.β
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.β
βOthers taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven, godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths β and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.β
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven, godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths β and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.β
βIt should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same for love. No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life-not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion. It has denouement. It has an outcome that though unforeseen was predestined from the first image of the original mood-and indeed from the very mood. It is but a trick poem and no poem at all if the best of it was thought of first and saved for the last. It finds its own name as it goes and discovers the best waiting for it in some final phrase at once wise and sad-the happy-sad blend of the drinking song.β
βNo tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I am in a place, in a situation, as if I had materialized from cloud or risen out of the ground. There is a glad recognition of the long lost and the rest follows. Step by step the wonder of unexpected supply keeps growing. The impressions most useful to my purpose seem always those I was unaware of and so made no note of at the time when taken, and the conclusion is come to that like giants we are always hurling experience ahead of us to pave the future with against the day when we may Want to strike a line of purpose across it for somewhere. The line will have the more charm for not being mechanically straight. We enjoy the straight crookedness of a good walking stick. Modern instruments of precision are being used to make things crooked as if by eye and hand in the old days.β
Robert Frost Quotes by Topic
Find exactly what you are looking for by browsing this categorized list of Robert Frost quotes by topic.
Robert Frost on Poetry 5 quotes
View all 5 quotes on Poetry →Robert Frost on Snow 5 quotes
βThe Hyla breed That shouted in the mist a month ago, Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow.β
Robert Frost on Work 4 quotes
View all 4 quotes on Work →Robert Frost on Dust 3 quotes
βAll 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.β
Robert Frost on Life 2 quotes
βIn three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life β It goes on.β
What Robert Frost Said About Others
Discover personal opinions Robert Frost shared regarding contemporaries.
Robert Frost on Marilyn Ferguson
βSomething we were withholding made us weak Until we found it was ourselves.β
Robert Frost on George Washington
βI often say of George Washington that he was one of the few in the whole history of the world who was not carried away by power.β
Robert Frost on T. S. Eliot
βWe are both poets and we both like to play. That's the similarity. The difference is this: I like to play euchre. He likes to play Eucharist.β
Robert Frost on Robert Herrick (poet)
βA word with you, that of the singer recallingβ 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.β
Quotes About Robert Frost
Gain deeper perspective through quotes about Robert Frost from others.
Leonard Feeney on Robert Frost
John F. Kennedy on Robert Frost 3 quotes
βThis day devoted to the memory of Robert Frost offers an opportunity for reflection which is prized by politicians as well as by others, and even by poets, for Robert Frost was one of the granite figures of our time in America. He was supremely two things: an artist and an American. A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers. In America, our heroes have customarily run to men of large accomplishments. But today this college and country honors a man whose contribution was not to our size but to our spirit, not to our political beliefs but to our insight, not to our self-esteem, but to our self-comprehension. In honoring Robert Frost, we therefore can pay honor to the deepest sources of our national strength. That strength takes many forms, and the most obvious forms are not always the most significant. The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the Nation's greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as indispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power or power uses us.β
Source on Robert Frost 2 quotes
βTranslators, again-the most abused and patient lot of folk on earth-are helpful in making us better acquainted; though we hope the time will soon come when citizens of the twenty-one republics will no longer need translators. There is no reason for our not speaking each other's language...Ernesto Montenegro, on the other hand, has introduced Sandburg, Frost, Robinson, Masters, and many other North American poets to the Spanish reading public.β
Judith Ortiz Cofer on Robert Frost
βWhat I'm trying to do is something defined by Robert Frost: when he said "a poem is a momentary stay against confusion." When you write a poem you have a moment in which all confusion ceases and you understand one thing perfectly.β
Vicki L. Ruiz on Robert Frost
β"But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep." Taken from a popular poem by Robert Frost, these two lines could serve as an anthem for Mexican women in the Southwest, women who, as a social and economic group, still find themselves at or near the bottom rung of the socioeconomic ladder.β
About Robert Frost
Robert Lee Frost (26 March 1874 β 29 January 1963) was an American poet; winner of four Pulitzer Prizes.