Robert Frost Quotes
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I believe in teaching, but I don’t believe in going to school.
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I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
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The only way around is through.
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You have freedom when you're easy in your harness.
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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. It is this backward motion toward the source, Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in, The tribute of the current to the source. It is from this in nature we are from. It is most us.
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It is only a moment here and a moment there that the greatest writer has. Some cognizance of the fact must be taken in your teaching.
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There is absolutely no reason for being rushed along with the rush. Everybody should be free to go slow.
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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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All thought is a feat of association; having what's in front of you bring up something in your mind that you almost didn't know you knew.
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God made a beauteous garden With lovely flowers strown, But one straight, narrow pathway That was not overgrown. And to this beauteous garden He brought mankind to live, And said "To you, my children, These lovely flowers I give. Prune ye my vines and fig trees, With care my flowers tend, But keep the pathway open Your home is at the end." God's Garden
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You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father s. He's more particular. The father is always a Republican towards his son, and his mother's always a Democrat.
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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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Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air.
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Never discuss the poem you contemplate writing. It's like turning on the outside spigot. It takes all the pressure off the upstairs bathroom.
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(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite, Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;) And go along with you ere you lose sight Of what you came for and become like me, Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed, The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
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Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
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How are we to write The Russian novel in America As long as life goes so unterribly?
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When work becomes play, and play becomes your work, your life unfolds.
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The city is all right. To live in one Is to be civilized, stay up and read Or sing and dance all night and see sunrise By waiting up instead of getting up.
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The jury consist of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer.
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The dog barks backwards without getting up; I can remember when he was a pup.
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We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.
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I could define poetry this way: it is that which is lost out of both prose and verse in translation.
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No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.