Robert Frost

Others 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

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

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.

Some 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.

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...

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

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.

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

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.

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 ...

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.

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