Quotes from Robert Frost

But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.

College is a refuge from hasty judgment.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.

The middle of the road is where the white line is - and that's the worst place to drive.

Every poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world.

Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.

I am a writer of books in retrospect. I talk in order to understand; I teach in order to learn.

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

Style is that which indicates how the writer takes himself and what he is saying. It is the mind skating circles around itself as it moves forward.

That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.

What makes a nation in the beginning is a good piece of geography.

My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.

The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

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.

The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods.

Now close the windows and hush all the fields: If the trees must, let them silently toss.

But I may be one who does not care Ever to have tree bloom or bear.

I wonder about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place?

loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round

A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, and wants it down.

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