Robert Frost Short Love Poems

Robert Frost Short Love Poems

  • Here further up the mountain slope
    Than there was every any hope,
    My father built, enclosed a spring,
    Strung chains of wall round everything,
    Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
    And brought our various lives to pass.
    A dozen girls and boys we were.
    The mountain seemed to like the stir,
    And made of us a little while-
    With always something in her smile.
    Today she wouldn’t know our name.
    (No girl’s, of course, has stayed the same.)
    The mountain pushed us off her knees.
    And now her lap is full of trees.
  • All crying, ‘We will go with you, O Wind!’
    The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;
    But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
    And they end by bidding them as they go,
    And they end by bidding him stay with them.Since ever they flung abroad in spring
    The leaves had promised themselves this flight,
    Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,
    Or thicket, or hollow place for the night.And now they answer his summoning blast
    With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,
    Or at utmost a little reluctant whirl
    That drops them no further than where they were.

    I only hope that when I am free
    As they are free to go in quest
    Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life
    It may not seem better to me to rest.

  • The west was getting out of gold,
    The breath of air had died of cold,
    When shoeing home across the white,
    I thought I saw a bird alight.In summer when I passed the place
    I had to stop and lift my face;
    A bird with an angelic gift
    Was singing in it sweet and swift.No bird was singing in it now.
    A single leaf was on a bough,
    And that was all there was to see
    In going twice around the tree.

    From my advantage on a hill
    I judged that such a crystal chill
    Was only adding frost to snow
    As gilt to gold that wouldn’t show.

    A brush had left a crooked stroke
    Of what was either cloud or smoke
    From north to south across the blue;
    A piercing little star was through.

  • Sea waves are green and wet,
    But up from where they die,
    Rise others vaster yet,
    And those are brown and dry.They are the sea made land
    To come at the fisher town,
    And bury in solid sand
    The men she could not drown.She may know cove and cape,
    But she does not know mankind
    If by any change of shape,
    She hopes to cut off the mind.

    Men left her a ship to sink:
    They can leave her a hut as well;
    And be but freer to think
    For the one more cast-off shell.

  • I had for my winter evening walk-
    No one at all with whom to talk,
    But I had the cottages in a row
    Up to their shining eyes in snow.And I thought I had the folk within:
    I had the sound of a violin;
    I had a glimpse through curtain laces
    Of youthful forms and youthful faces.I had such company outward bound.
    I went till there were no cottages found.
    I turned and repented, but coming back
    I saw no window but that was black.

    Over the snow my creaking feet
    Disturbed the slumbering village street
    Like profanation, by your leave,
    At ten o’clock of a winter eve.

  • The surest thing there is we are riders,
    And though none too successful at it, guides,
    Through everything presented, land and tide
    And now the very air, of what we ride.What is this talked-of mystery of birth
    But being mounted bareback on the earth?
    We can just see the infant up astride,
    His small fist buried in the bushy hide.There is our wildest mount- a headless horse.
    But though it runs unbridled off its course,
    And all our blandishments would seem defied,
    We have ideas yet that we haven’t tried.
  • If, as they say, some dust thrown in my eyes
    Will keep my talk from getting overwise,
    I’m not the one for putting off the proof.
    Let it be overwhelming, off a roof
    And round a corner, blizzard snow for dust,
    And blind me to a standstill if it must.
  • Blood has been harder to dam back than water.
    Just when we think we have it impounded safe
    Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),
    It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.
    We choose to say it is let loose by the devil;
    But the power of blood itself releases blood.
    It goes by might of being such a flood
    Held high at so unnatural a level.
    It will have an outlet, brave and not so brave.
    weapons of war and implements of peace
    Are but the points at which it finds release.
    And now it is once more the tidal wave
    That when it has swept by leaves summits stained.
    Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained.
  • Inscription for a Garden WallWinds blow the open grassy places bleak;
    But where this old wall burns a sunny cheek,
    They eddy over it too toppling weak
    To blow the earth or anything self-clear;
    Moisture and color and odor thicken here.
    The hours of daylight gather atmosphere
  • (To hear us talk)The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
    Throws down in front of us is not bar
    Our passage to our journey’s end for good,
    But just to ask us who we think we areInsisting always on our own way so.
    She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,
    And make us get down in a foot of snow
    Debating what to do without an ax.

    And yet she knows obstruction is in vain:
    We will not be put off the final goal
    We have it hidden in us to attain,
    Not though we have to seize earth by the pole

    And, tired of aimless circling in one place,
    Steer straight off after something into space.

  • No ship of all that under sail or steam
    Have gathered people to use more and more
    But Pilgrim-manned the Mayflower in a dream
    Has been her anxious convoy into shore.
  • As told to a childWhen we locked up the house at night,
    We always locked the flowers outside
    And cut them off from window light.
    The time I dreamed the door was tried
    And brushed with buttons upon sleeves,
    The flowers were out there with the thieves.
    Yet nobody molested them!
    We did find one nasturtium
    Upon the steps with the bitten stem.
    I may have been to blame for that:
    I always thought it must have been
    Some Hower I played with as I sat
    At dusk to watch the moon down early.
  • Over back where they speak of life as staying
    (‘You couldn’t call it living, for it ain’t’),
    There was an old, old house renewed with paint,
    And in it, a piano loudly playing.Out in the plowed ground in the cold a digger,
    Among unearthed potatoes standing still,
    Was counting winter dinners, one a hill,
    With half an ear to the piano’s vigor.All that piano and new paint back there,
    Was it some money suddenly come into?
    Or some extravagance young love had been to?
    Or old love on an impulse not to care-

    Not to sink under being man and wife,
    But get some color and music out of life?

  • You come to fetch me from my work tonight
    When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
    If I can leave off burying the white
    Soft petals have fallen from the apple tree
    (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.
  • Here come the line-gang pioneering by,
    They throw a forest down less cut than broken.
    They plant dead trees for a living, and the dead
    They string together with a living thread.
    The string an instrument against the sky
    Wherein words whether beaten out or spoken
    Will run as hushed as when they were a thought
    But in no hush they string it: they go past
    With shouts afar to pull the cable taught,
    To hold it hard until they make it fast,
    To ease away — they have it. With a laugh,
    An oath of towns that set the wild at naught
    They bring the telephone and telegraph.
  • When I was young my teachers were the old.
    I gave up fire for form till I was cold.
    I suffered like a metal being cast.
    I went to school to age to learn the past.Now when I am old my teachers are the young.
    What can’t be molded must be cracked and sprung.
    I strain at lessons fit to start a future.
    I got to school to youth to learn the future.
  • A plow, they say, to plow the snow.
    They cannot mean to plant it, no —
    Unless in bitterness to mock
    At having cultivated rock.

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