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Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.

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
Butterflies
Butterfly
Flowers
Sing
Flower

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Always fall in with what you're asked to accept. Take what is given, and make it over your way. My aim in life has always been to hold my own with whatever's going. Not against: with.
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The people I am most afraid of are those who are the most afraid.
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Man that is of woman born is apt to be as vain has his mother.
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There are three things, after all, that a poem must reach: the eye, the ear, and what we may call the heart or the mind. It is the most important of all to reach the heart of the reader.
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A turning point in modern history.
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A successful lawsuit is the one worn by a policeman.
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When I see birches bend to left and right... I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
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States strong enough to do good are but few. Their number would seem limited to three.
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If we couldn't laugh we would all go insane.
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For I thought Epicurus and Lucretius By Nature meant the Whole Goddam Machinery.
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The best way to hate is the worst. 'Tis to find what the hated need, Never mind of what actual worth, And wipe that out of the earth. Let them die of unsatisfied greed.
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Life is tons of discipline. Your first discipline is your vocabulary then your grammar and your punctuation
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You're searching... For things that don't exist I mean beginnings. Ends and beginnings - there are no such things. There are only middles.
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There would be more than ocean-water broken Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.
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I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.
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But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been - alone, As all must be, I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart.
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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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The only way round is through.
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Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
Robert Frost
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There is no love. There's only love of men and women, love Of children, love of friends, of men, of God: Divine love, human love, parental love, Roughly discriminated for the rough.
Robert Frost