Quotes by Robert Frost

Publishing his first collection of poems in 1913, Robert Frost emerged onto the American Literary Scene during The Jazz Age. Though his works neither contained the glitz and glam of F. Scott Fitzgerald, or the grotesque Southern Gothic imagery of Flannery O'Connor, and William Faulkner, Frost's introspective, but realistic depictions of rural New England cemented his status as not only the foremost modernist poet along with Wallace Stevens and and T.S Eliot, but as perhaps the greatest virtuosos of his time to be steeped in verse and rhyme.

Praised for his employment of colloquial speech in his body of work, Frost's efforts translated into four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry, a Congressional Gold Medal and himself, came to be regarded as a literary institution in and around the United States. Here are 5 of the Best Quotes delivered by one of the most renown poets to have ever lived:


"These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."

No matter how wooded or bare the paths we walk and sleep, there remain many bare and wooded paths to walk before we lie down for the last time.


"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

The path which is seldom wandered is a path where many wonders await.


"Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired."

We want that which leaves others in want of us.


"Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length."

Though happiness may not be what physically gets us to the peek of the mountain, it can make us feel we are gazing down from it -- at the world that stretches beyond the horizon.


"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."

When it comes to being blessed, or cursed with a heart charged to beat against the current of time, and life, the most painful, but perhaps the most beautiful thing when the torrent finally beats us is that it beats on. Even as we are carried backward down the stream. Into memory. Into history. Into the past.

Though Robert Frost has since found rest at the end of a road taken by none but himself, his poetry lingers. Sweeping through, and chiming among the leaves of trees that line many paths that remain to be wandered. And even now, have yet to be wondered upon.

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