Quote

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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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
Much
Burning
Weariness
Love
Bitter
Stains
Faults
Lacks
Tears
Bark
Sweet
Crave
Joy
Bitterness
Almost
Salt
Dashed
Pain
Fault
Stain

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Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun.
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Nature's never quite Sure she hasn't erred In her vague design.
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Summoning artists to participate In the august occasions of the state Seems something artists ought to celebrate. Today is for my cause a day of days.
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A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.
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End is a gloomy word.
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I write to find out what I didn't know I knew.
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It is only a moment here and a moment there that the greatest writer has. Some cognizance of the fact must be taken in your teaching.
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The reason artists show so little interest In public freedom is because the freedom They've come to feel the need of is a kind No one can give them they can scarce attain The freedom of their own material.
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The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.
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There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and won't, and that's a wife who can't cook and will.
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A turning point in modern history.
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People who read me seem to be divided into four groups: twenty-five percent like me for the right reasons twenty-five percent like me for the wrong reasons twenty-five percent hate me for the wrong reasons twenty-five percent hate me for the right reasons. It's that last twenty-five percent that worries me.
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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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Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
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Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.
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