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The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day.

Robert Frost

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Robert Frost
Age: 88 †
Born: 1874
Born: March 26
Died: 1963
Died: January 29
Pedagogue
Playwright
Poet
Writer
San Francisco County
California
Robert Lee Frost
Wind
Nature
Springtime
April
Conservation
Chill
Warm
Sun
Spring

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Nothing flatters me more than to have it assumed that I could write prose, unless it be to have it assumed that I once pitched a baseball with distinction.
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But these are flowers that fly and all but sing: And now from having ridden out desire They lie closed over in the wind and cling Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
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Nature's first green is gold.
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At bottom the world isn't a joke. We only joke about it to avoid an issue with someone, to let someone know that we know he's there with his questions to disarm him by seeming to have heard and done justice to his side of the standing argument.
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It's hard to get into this world and hard to get out of it, and what's in between doesn't make much sense.
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Poetry is play. I'd even rather have you think of it as a sport. For instance, like football.
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Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.
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A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
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Hell is a half-filled auditorium.
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The Vermont mountains stretch extended straight New Hampshire mountains curl up in a coil.
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Before now poetry has taken notice Of wars, and what are wars but politics Transformed from chronic to acute and bloody?
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If you're looking for something to be brave about, consider fine arts.
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Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.
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Than smoke and mist who better could appraise The kindred spirit of an inner haze?
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For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew.
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Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.
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I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.
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When I was young my teachers were the old. I gave up fire for form till I was cold.
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Trust him to have his bitter politics Against his unacquaintances the rich Who sleep in houses of their own, though mortgaged. Conservatives, they don't know what to save.
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We ran as if to meet the moon.
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