Quote

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.

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
Save
Wealth
Trust
Sleep
Rich
Mortgaged
Politics
Conservatives
Though
Houses
House
Bitter

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Don't be agnostic - be something.
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If the writer does not cry, the reader does not cry.
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Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth.
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You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.
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Freedom lies in being bold.
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But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
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Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?
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It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound-that he will never get over it.
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You can't get too much winter in the winter.
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I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.
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The truth is the river flows into the canyon Of Ceasing-to-Question-What-Doesn't-Concern-Us, As sooner or later we have to cease somewhere.
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I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
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Democracy is the best chance for the best people.
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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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Than smoke and mist who better could appraise The kindred spirit of an inner haze?
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Nobody was ever meant, To remember or invent, What he did with every cent.
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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
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I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
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