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

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

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

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,

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.

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

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.

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

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,

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

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...

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