Category Robert Frost

Will the blight end the chestnut?The farmers rather guess not.It keeps smouldering at the rootsAnd sending up new shootsTill another parasiteShall come to end the blight.

Let me be the one To do what is done.

This biplane is the shape of human flight. Its name might better be First Motor Kite. Its makers’ name—Time cannot get that wrong, For it was writ in heaven doubly Wright.

The old dog barks backward without getting up. I can remember when he was a pup.

I never dared be radical when young For fear it would make me conservative when old.

The witch that came (the withered hag) To wash the steps with pail and rag, Was once the beauty Abishag, The picture pride of Hollywood. Too many fall from great and good For you to doubt the likelihood. Die early…

Some of you will be glad I did what I did, And the rest won’t want to punish me too severely For finding a thing to do that though not forbid Yet wasn’t enjoined and wasn’t expected clearly. To punish…

I said to myself almost in prayer, It will start hair raising currents of air When you give it the livid metal-sap. It will make a homicidal roar. It will shake its cast stone reef of floor. It will gather…

We sit indoors and talk of the cold outside. And every gust that gathers strength and heaves Is a threat to the house. But the house has long been tried. We think of the tree. If it never again has…

A scent of ripeness from over a wall. And come to leave the routine road And look for what had made me stall, There sure enough was an appletree That had eased itself of its summer load, And of all…