Robert Frost Quotes
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Everything written is as good as it is dramatic. It need not declare itself in form, but it is drama or nothing.
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Summary riposte To the dreary wail There's no knowing what Love is all about. Poets know a lot.
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Life must be kept up at a great rate in order to absorb any considerable amount of learning.
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The artist in me cries out for design.
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States strong enough to do good are but few. Their number would seem limited to three.
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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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Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country.
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Keats mourned that the rainbow, which as a boy had been for him a magic thing, had lost its glory because the physicists had found it resulted merely from the refraction of the sunlight by the raindrops. Yet knowledge of its causation could not spoil the rainbow for me. I am sure that it is not given to man to be omniscient. There will always be something left to know, something to excite the imagination of the poet and those attuned to the great world in which they live.
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He says the best way out is always through. And I can agree to that, or in so far / As that I can see no way out but through.
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I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world.
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Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.
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Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
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They would not find me changed from him they knew - only more sure of all I thought was true.
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Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.
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Let those possess the land, and only those, Who love it with a love so strong and stupid That they may be abused and taken advantage of And made fun of by business, law, and art....
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Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better.
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We're either nothing or a God's regret.
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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.
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I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
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I'm not confused. I'm just well mixed.
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The chance is the remotest. Of its going much longer unnoticed. That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race.
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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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Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
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It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage...