Robert Frost

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

Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of - was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Down hill at dusk

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it
And from there those that lifted eyes could

Others taught 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 f...

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.

Something there is that doesn't 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

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; I'll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear,
I may): I sha'n't be gone long
—You come too
I'm going out to fetch the little calf That's standing by the mother...

God made a beatous
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow
That was not overgrown

How countlessly they congregateO'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as
When wintry winds do blow
—As if with keenness for our fate,

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping
To watch his woods fill up with snow

There sandy seems the golden
And golden seems the sandy plain
No habitation meets the
Unless in the horizon rim,

This saying good-bye on the edge of the dark And cold to an orchard so young in the bark Reminds me of all that can happen to harm An orchard away at the end of the farm All winter, cut off by a hill from the house
I don't want it girdled by ...

The people along the
All turn and look one way
They turn their back on the land
They look at the sea all day

We make ourselves a place
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated
Till someone find us really out

I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene
I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone o...

There 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...