Quotes from Robert Frost

My definition of literature would be just this: words that have become deeds.

Easy does it.

Working faithfully 8 hours a day, you may eventually get to be the boss and work 12 hours a day.

A Late Walk - A Tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower to carry again to you.

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep The people along the sand All turn and look one way. They turn their back on the land. They look at the sea all day. As long as it takes to pass A ship keeps raising its hull; The wetter ground like glass Reflects a standing gull. The land may vary more; But wherever the truth may be--- The water comes ashore, And the people look at the sea. They cannot look out far. They cannot look in deep. But when was that ever a bar To any watch they keep?

The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.

I may return If dissatisfied With what I learn From having died.

But bid life seize the present? It lives less in the present Than in the future always, And less in both together Than in the past. The present Is too much for the senses, Too crowding, too confusing— Too present to imagine.

The ear is the only writer and the only true reader.

The Road not Taken [...] 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 travelled by, and that has made all the difference...

I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway. I'd rather you'd not go unless you must.

My apple trees will never get across and eat the cones under his pines,I tell him.He only says,Good fences make good neighbors.

I could say Elves to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself.

La libertad está en ser audaz.

The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not to bar Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are

But the flower leaned aside And thought of naught to say, And morning found the winter breeze A hundred miles away.

I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

Sudden and swift and light as that The ties gave, And he learned of finalities Besides the grave.

The realist always falls in love with a girl he has grown up with, the romanticist with a girl from 'off somewhere.

My sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be.

To the Thawing Wind Come with rain, O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snow-bank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate'er you do to-night, Bathe my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit's crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o'er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of door.

The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. –

why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall that sends the frozen ground swell under it.