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Birches. By Robert Frost. When I see birches bend to left and right. Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay. As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them. Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning.
Mending Wall. By Robert Frost. Something there is that does n’t love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair. Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
12 de jun. de 2023 · Robert Frost lived and taught for many years in Massachusetts and Vermont, and died in Boston on January 29, 1963. Robert Frost - One of the most celebrated figures in American poetry, Robert Frost was the author of numerous poetry collections, including New Hampshire (Henry Holt and Company, 1923). Born in San Francisco in 1874, he lived and ...
21 de jun. de 2020 · Dissertação aqui. Depois desse rápido desabafo, longe de dar conta da tarefa árdua que é traduzir a obra completa de Frost, trago para você três poemas do autor, traduzidos para o português por pesquisadores diferentes. Os poemas Into my own, Stopping by woods on a snowy evening e Mending wall foram pinçados da obra do poeta ...
Há 5 dias · Robert Frost, American poet who was much admired for his depictions of the rural life of New England, his command of American colloquial speech, and his realistic verse portraying ordinary people in everyday situations. Learn more about his life and career in this article.
By Robert Frost. I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain — and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat. And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet.
13 de out. de 2023 · 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. From The Poetry of Robert Fros t edited by Edward Connery Lathem.
