Robert Lee Frost

United States
26 Mar 1874 // 29 Jan 1963
Poeta

Quotes

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Don't join too many gangs. Join few if any.
Join the United States and join the family
But not much in between unless a college.

Build Soil, 1932
The brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office.
Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes all the pressure off the second.

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Unless I'm wrong
I but obey
The urge of a song:
I'm 'bound' away!

And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died.

Away!, 1962
Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.

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

Tree at My Window, 1928

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, 1923

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.

Dust of Snow, 1923

If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyes
Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
I'm not the one for putting off the proof.
Let it be overwhelming.

Dust in the Eyes, 1928
A poem ... begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. ... It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Letter to Louis Untermeyer, January 1, 1916
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On Anger: "For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind."
Essays
On Destiny: "Our destiny exercises its influence over us even when, as yet, we have not learned its nature: it is our future that lays down the law of our today."
Human, All Too Human
On Friendship: "A crowd is not company; and faces are but a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love."
Essays