Robert Frost Quotes
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The beauty of enmity is insecurity; the beauty of friendship is in security.
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Humor is the most engaging cowardice.
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It's a funny thing that when a man hasn't anything on earth to worry about, he goes off and gets married.
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But what would interest you about the brook, It's always cold in summer, warm in winter.
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Man that is of woman born is apt to be as vain as his mother
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The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader. I know people who read without hearing the sentence sounds and they were the fastest readers. Eye readers we call them. They get the meaning by glances. But they are bad readers because they miss the best part of what a good writer puts into his work.
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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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God once declared He was true And then took the veil and withdrew....
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For dear me, why abandon a belief Merely because it ceases to be true.
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Americans are like a rich father who wishes he knew how to give his son the hardships that made him rich.
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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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The sidelong glance is what you depend on.
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The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But now the theory goes That the apple's a rose, And the pear is, and so's The plum, I suppose. The dear only knows What will next prove a rose. You, of course, are a rose But were always a rose.
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I have been one acquainted with the night.
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As it is more blessed to receive, so it must be more blessed to receive than to give back.
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Freedom is slavery some poets tell us. Enslave yourself to the right leader's truth, Christ's or Karl Marx', and it will set you free.
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The people I am most afraid of are those who are the most afraid.
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Sentences are not different enough to hold the attention unless they are dramatic. No ingenuity of varying structure will do. All that can save them is the speaking tone of voice somehow entangled in the words and fastened to the page for the ear of the imagination. That is all that can save poetry from sing-song, all that can save prose from itself.
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Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes Is the deed ever truly done For Heaven and the future's sakes.
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Forgive me my nonsense, as I also forgive the nonsense of those that think they talk sense.
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Ends and beginningsthere are no such things. There are only middles.
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Let cloud shapes swarm, / Let chaos storm, / I wait for form.
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The first thing I do in the morning is to make my bed and while I am making up my bed I am making up my mind as to what kind of a day I am going to have.
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That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.