Robert Frost Quotes
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In spring more mortal singers than belong To any one place cover us with song. Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng....
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The worst disease which can afflict executives in their work is not, as popularly supposed, alcoholism; it's egotism.
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Thinking is not to agree or disagree. That is voting.
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At bottom the world isn't a joke. We only joke about it to avoid an issue with someone, to let someone know that we know he's there with his questions; to disarm him by seeming to have heard and done justice to his side of the standing argument.
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Now no joy but lacks salt .That is not dashed with pain and weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
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Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence.
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Poetry begins in trivial metaphors, pretty metaphors, "grace" metaphors, and goes on to the profoundest thinking that we have. Poetry provides the one permissible way of saying one thing and meaning another. People say, "Why don’t you say what you mean?" We never do that, do we, being all of us too much poets. We like to talk in parables and in hints and in indirections — whether from diffidence or some other instinct.
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Have I not walked without an upward look Of caution under stars that very well Might not have missed me when they shot and fell? It was a risk I had to take-and took.
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I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
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A person will sometimes devote all his life to the development of one part of his body - the wishbone.
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Haven't you heard, though, About the ships where war has found them out At sea, about the towns where war has come Through opening clouds at night with droning speed Further o'erhead than all but stars and angels And children in the ships and in the towns?
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I never feel more at home than at a ballgame.
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The dog barks backwards without getting up; I can remember when he was a pup.
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Let me be the one To do what is done.
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Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these She a window flower And he a winter breeze ...
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The poet, as everyone knows, must strike his individual note sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. He may hold it a long time, or a short time, but it is then that he must strike it or never. School and college have been conducted with the almost express purpose of keeping him busy with something else till the danger of his ever creating anything is past.
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You've often heard me say - perhaps too often - that poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation. That little poem means just what it says and it says what it means, nothing less but nothing more.
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Nature's first green is gold.
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What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.
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One of the lies would make it out that nothing Ever presents itself before us twice. Where would we be at last if that were so? Our very life depends on everything's Recurring till we answer from within.
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What are we? Young or new? We must be something.
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Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
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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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The only way around is through.