Robert Frost Quotes
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Skepticism,'' is that anything more than we used to mean when we said, ''Well, what have we here?'
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Word I was in my life alone, / Word I had no one left but God.
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We love things we love what they are.
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I never knew what was meant by choice of words. It was one word or none.
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As for his evil tidings, Belshazzar's overthrow, Why hurry to tell Belshazzar What soon enough he would know?
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Tolerance is the uncomfortable feeling that in the end the other could be right.
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Freedom lies in being bold.
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Hope is not found in a way out but a way through.
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Yet some say Love by being thrall And simply staying possesses all In several beauty that Thought fares far To find fused in another star.
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My goal in life is to unite my avocation with my vocation, As my two eyes make one in sight.
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But not gold in commercial quantities, Just enough gold to make the engagement rings And marriage rings of those who owned the farm. What gold more innocent could one have asked for?
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Nothing can make injustice just but mercy.
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A man will sometimes devote all his life to the development of one part of his body -- the wishbone.
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The difference between a job and a career is the difference between forty and sixty hours a week.
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One age is like another for the soul.
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Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
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The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep....
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But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.
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Any work of art must first of all tell a story.
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What we live by we die by.
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If one by one we counted people out For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long To get so we had no one left to live with. For to be social is to be forgiving.
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The style is the man. Rather say the style is the way the man takes himself; and to be at all charming or even bearable, the way is almost rigidly prescribed. If it is with outer seriousness, it must be with inner humor. If it is with outer humor, it must be with inner seriousness. No other way will do.
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Nature does not complete things. She is chaotic. Man must finish, and he does so by making a garden and building a wall.
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My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.