Robert Frost

“Revelation WE make ourselves a place apartBehind light words that tease and flout,But oh, the agitated heartTill someone find us really out.’Tis pity if the case require(Or so we say) that in the endWe speak the literal to inspireThe understanding of a friend.But so with all, from babes that playAt hide-and-seek to God afar,So all who hide too well awayMust speak and tell us where they are”

“He says the best way out is always through. / And I can agree to that, or in so far / As that I can see no way out but through”

“New' is a word for fools in towns who think / Style upon style in dress and thought at last / Must get somewhere.”

“To be social is to be forgiving.”

“Something sinister in the toneTold me my secret must be known:Word I was in the house aloneSomehow must have gotten abroad,Word I was in my life alone,Word I had no one left but God.”

“Dos caminos se bifurcaban en un bosque y yo...Yo tomé el menos transitado,y eso hizo toda la diferencia.”

“If it is with outer seriousness, it must be with inner humor. If it is with outer humor, it must be with inner seriousness. Neither one alone without the other under it will do.”

“An idea is a feat of association, and the height of it is a good metaphor.”

“The objective idea is all I ever cared about. Most of my ideas occur in verse... To be too subjective with what an artist has managed to make objective is to come on him presumptuously and render ungraceful what he in pain of his life had faith he had made graceful.”

“Weep for what little things could make them glad.”

“If you should rise from Nowhere up to Somewhere, From being No one up to being Someone, Be sure to keep repeating to yourself You owe it to an arbitrary god Whose mercy to you rather than to others Won’t bear to critical examination. Stay unassuming. If for lack of license To wear the uniform of who you are, You should be tempted to make up for it In a subordinationg look or toe, Beware of coming too much to the surface And using for apparel hat was meant To be the curtain of the inmost soul.”

“A voice said, Look me in the starsAnd tell me truly, men of earth,If all the soul-and-body scarsWere not too much to pay for birth.”

“Too long I've owed you this apologyFor the apparently unmeaning sorrowYou were afflicted with in those old days.But it was of the essence of the trialYou shouldn't understand it at the time.”

“Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.”

“La libertad está en ser audaz.”

“I dwell in a lonely house I knowThat vanished many a summer ago.”

“The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But now the theory goes That the apple's a rose, And the pear is, and so's The plum, I suppose. The dear only knows What will next prove a rose. You, of course, are a rose But were always a rose.”

“Nor is there wanting in the pressSome spirit to stand simply forth,Heroic in it nakedness,Against the uttermost of earth.The tale of earth's unhonored thingsSounds nobler there than 'neath the sun;And the mind whirls and the heart sings,And a shout greets the daring one.”

“They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves.”

“I could give all to Time except -- exceptWhat I myself have held. But why declareThe things forbidden that while the Customs sleptI have crossed to Safety with? For I am There,And what I would not part with I have kept.”

“Back out of all this now too much for us,Back in a time made simple by the lossOf detail, burned, dissolved, and broken offLike graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,There is a house that is no more a houseUpon a farm that is no more a farmAnd in a town that is no more a town.The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct youWho only has at heart your getting lost,May seem as if it should have been a quarry—Great monolithic knees the former townLong since gave up pretense of keeping covered.And there’s a story in a book about it:Besides the wear of iron wagon wheelsThe ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,The chisel work of an enormous GlacierThat braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.You must not mind a certain coolness from himStill said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.Nor need you mind the serial ordealOf being watched from forty cellar holesAs if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.As for the woods’ excitement over youThat 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 outA few old pecker-fretted apple trees.Make yourself up a cheering song of howSomeone’s road home from work this once was,Who may be just ahead of you on footOr creaking with a buggy load of grain.The height of the adventure is the heightOf country where two village cultures fadedInto each other. Both of them are lost.And if you’re lost enough to find yourselfBy now, pull in your ladder road behind youAnd put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.Then make yourself at home. The only fieldNow left’s no bigger than a harness gall.First 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.Then for the house that is no more a house,But only a belilaced cellar hole,Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.Your destination and your destiny’sA 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 arousedWill leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)I have kept hidden in the instep archOf an old cedar at the watersideA broken drinking goblet like the GrailUnder 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.”

“The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader. I know people who read without hearing the sentence sounds and they were the fastest readers. Eye readers we call them. They get the meaning by glances. But they are bad readers because they miss the best part of what a good writer puts into his work.”

“We ran as if to meet the moon.”

“The TelephoneWhen I was just as far as I could walkFrom here todayThere was an hourAll stillWhen leaning with my head against a flowerI heard you talk.Don't say I didn't for I heard you sayYou spoke from that flower on the window sill-Do you remember what it was you said ''First tell me what it was you thought you heard.''Having found the flower and driven a bee awayI leaned my headAnd holding by the stalkI listened and I thought I caught the wordWhat was itDid you call me by my name Or did you saySomeone said "Come"I heard it as I bowed.''I may have thought as much but not aloud.'Well so I came.”

“Holding the curve of one position, counting an endless repetition.”

“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...”

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningWhose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.”

“I end not far from my going forthBy picking the faded blueOf the last remaining aster flowerTo carry again to you.”

“So when at times the mob is swayedTo carry praise or blame too far,We may choose something like a starTo stay our minds on and be staid.”

“Keats mourned that the rainbow, which as a boy had been for him a magic thing, had lost its glory because the physicists had found it resulted merely from the refraction of the sunlight by the raindrops. Yet knowledge of its causation could not spoil the rainbow for me. I am sure that it is not given to man to be omniscient. There will always be something left to know, something to excite the imagination of the poet and those attuned to the great world in which they live (p. 64)”

“Hope is not found in a way out but a way through.”

“People who read me seem to be divided into four groups: twenty-five percent like me for the right reasons; twenty-five percent like me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the right reasons. It's that last twenty-five percent that worries me.”

“Fragmentary BlueWhy make so much of fragmentary blueIn here and there a bird, or butterfly,Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--Though some savants make earth include the sky;And blue so far above us comes so high,It only gives our wish for blue a whet.”

“What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.”

“The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.”

“Families break up when they get hints you don't intend and miss hints that you do.”

“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”

“The Master Speed No speed of wind or water rushing bybut you have speed far greater. You can climbback up a stream of radiance to the sky,and back through history up the stream of time.And you were given this swiftness, not for hastenor chiefly that you may go where you will,but in the rush of everything to waste,that you may have the power of standing still--off any still or moving thing you say.Two such as you with such a master speedFrom one another once you are agreedthat life is only life forevermoretogether wing to wing and oar to oar.”

“GATHERING LEAVESSpades take up leavesNo better than spoons,And bags full of leavesAre light as balloons.I make a great noiseOf rustling all dayLike rabbit and deerRunning away.But the mountains I raiseElude my embrace,Flowing over my armsAnd into my face.I may load and unloadAgain and againTill I fill the whole shed,And what have I then?Next to nothing for weight,And since they grew dullerFrom contact with earth,Next to nothing for color.Next to nothing for use.But a crop is a crop,And who's to say whereThe harvest shall stop?”

“Some spirit to stand simply forth,Heroic in its nakedness,Against the uttermost of earth....”

“Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?”

“What are we?Young or new?We must be something.”

“Unless you are at home in the metaphor, you are not safe anywhere.”

“He thought that I was after him for a feather---The white one in his tail: like one who takes everything said as personal to himself.”

“For dear me, why abandon a beliefMerely because it ceases to be true”

“The 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,You're one month on in the middle of May.But if you so much as dare to speak,a cloud come over the sunlit arch,And wind comes off a frozen peak,And you're two months back in the middle of March.”

“I shall be telling this with a sigh 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.”

“A poet never takes notes..you never take notes in a Love Affair.”

“I dwell with a strangely aching heartIn that vanished abode there far apart”

“I am one who has been acquainted with the night”