Resultado da Busca
31 de mai. de 2023 · I dwell with a strangely aching heart. In that vanished abode there far apart. On that disused and forgotten road. That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; The whippoorwill is coming to shout. And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away.
By Robert Frost. O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call; Tomorrow they may form and go. O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow.
Nature as a Mirror of Life. One of Frost's most iconic poems, "The Road Not Taken," portrays a traveler at a crossroads in a forest. Frost's description of the two paths diverging in the yellow wood resonates with readers, as it symbolizes the choices we face in life. The poem encourages us to embrace our individuality and take the path less ...
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line. And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go.
Robert Frost, one of America's most beloved and celebrated poets, often captured the complexities of human emotions through his profound exploration of loss. With his unique ability to weave together vivid imagery and timeless themes, Frost's poems on loss resonate deeply with readers across generations.
31 de mai. de 2023 · Is silver now with clinging mist. The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why. Not yesterday I learned to know. The love of bare November days. Before the coming of the snow,
22 de mai. de 2024 · Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance. When that was, the soft mist. Of my regret hung not on all the land, And I was glad for thee, And glad for me, I wist. Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high, That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind, With those great careless wings, Nor yet did I.
