Robert frost
Biography: Robert Frost was born in San Francisco on March 26, 1874. He moved to New
England at the age of eleven and became interested in reading and writing
poetry during his high school years in Lawrence, Massachusetts. He was enrolled
at Dartmouth College in 1892, and later at Harvard, though he never earned a
formal degree.
Frost drifted through a string of occupations after leaving school, working
as a teacher, cobbler, and editor of the Lawrence Sentinel. His first
professional poem, "My Butterfly," was published on November 8, 1894, in the
New York newspaper The Independent.
In 1895, Frost married Elinor Miriam White, who became a major inspiration in
his poetry until her death in 1938. The couple moved to England in 1912, after
their New Hampshire farm failed, and it was abroad that Frost met and was
influenced by such contemporary British poets as Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke, and Robert Graves.
While in England, Frost also established a friendship with the poet Ezra
Pound, who helped to promote and publish his work.
By the time Frost returned to the United States in 1915, he had published two
full-length collections, A Boy's Will and North of Boston, and
his reputation was established. By the nineteen-twenties, he was the most
celebrated poet in America, and with each new book—including New
Hampshire , A Further Range, Steeple Bush
and In the Clearing —his fame and honors increased.
Robert Frost lived and taught for many years in Massachusetts and Vermont,
and died in Boston on January 29, 1963.
Biogrophy Reference
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Going For Water
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon
Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.
A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
Other Poems by Robert Frost
A Late Walk
A Question
A Brook in the City