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Robert Frost

Robert Frost

A Patch of Old Snow

There’s a patch of old snow in a corner
 That I should have guessed
Was a blow—away paper the rain
 Had brought to rest.
 
It is speckled with grime as if
 Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten—
 If I ever read it.

#AmericanWriters #PulitzerPrize #1916 #MountainInterval

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Piaciuto o affrontato da...
Monse Navoa Penelope Monia Gaita
Altre opere di Robert Frost...
On Going Unnoticed

As vain to raise a voice as a sigh In the tumult of free leaves on hi… What are you in the shadow of tree… Engaged up there with the light an… Less than the coral-root you know
The Cow in Apple Time

Something inspires the only cow of… To make no more of a wall than an… And think no more of wall—builders… Her face is flecked with pomace an… A cider syrup. Having tasted frui…
The Objection to Being Stepped On

At the end of the row I stepped on the toe Of an unemployed hoe. It rose in offense And struck me a blow
 1
On a Tree Fallen Across the Road

(To hear us talk) The tree the tempest with a crash… Throws down in front of us is not… Our passage to our journey’s end f… But just to ask us who we think we…
The Housekeeper

I let myself in at the kitchen doo… ‘It’s you,' she said. 'I can’t ge… Not answering your knock. I can n… Let people in than I can keep the… I’m getting too old for my size,…
Flower-gathering

I left you in the morning, And in the morning glow, You walked a way beside me To make me sad to go. Do you know me in the gloaming,
 1
Ten Mills: In Dives’ Dive

It is late at night and still I a… But still I am steady and unaccus… As long as the Declaration guards My right to be equal in number of… It is nothing to me who runs the…
Ten Mills: The Wrights’ Biplane

This biplane is the shape of human… Its name might better be First Mo… Its makers’ name—Time cannot get… For it was writ in heaven doubly…
A Line

The line-storm clouds fly tattered… The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones… And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for…
The Telephone

“When I was just as far as I coul… From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against…
 1
The Dead Soldier, by Joseph Wright of Derby
A Soldier

He is that fallen lance that lies… That lies unlifted now, come dew,… But still lies pointed as it ploug… If we who sight along it round the… See nothing worthy to have been it…
 1
"Out, Out—"

The buzz—saw snarled and rattled i… And made dust and dropped stove—le… Sweet—scented stuff when the breez… And from there those that lifted e… Five mountain ranges one behind th…
 1
A Late Walk

When I got up through the mowing… The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the h… Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden gro…
 1
The Runaway

Once when the snow of the year was… We stopped by a mountain pasture t… A little Morgan had one forefoot… The other curled at his breast. H… And snorted at us. And then he ha…
An Encounter

ONCE on the kind of day called “… When the heat slowly hazes and the… By its own power seems to be undon… I was half boring through, half cl… A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil…
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