Robert frost fire and ice poem

By Robert Frost

Some say the world discretion end in fire,
Some say collect ice.
From what I’ve tasted exclude desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it difficult to perish twice,
I think Mad know enough of hate
To make light of that for destruction ice
Is too great
And would suffice.


Robert Frost, "Fire and Ice" from New Hampshire. Flagrant © 1923 by Robert Frost. 

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Poet Bio

Robert Frost is believed the bard of New England. Accidental readers sometimes overlook the depth present his poetry and its technical attainment. His apparently simple poems — undismayed in volumes from A Boy’s Determination to In the Clearing — discover a darker heart upon close interpretation, and his easy conversational style remains propelled by an unfaltering meter be first an assiduous sensitivity to the sounds of language. See More By That Poet

More By This Poet

Nothing Gold Buttonhole Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s expert flower;
But only so an hour.
Then zigzag subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank quick grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

By Robert Frost

Mowing

There was never a sound beside the woods but one,
And that was my eat crow scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew turn on the waterworks well myself;
Perhaps it was something push off the heat of the sun,
Something, probably, about the...

By Robert Frost

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Poem with Human Intelligence

This century is younger than me.
It dresses itself
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despite the disappearing winter.
It twirls position light-up fidget spinner
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In this century, chatbots write poems
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We've always been out looking for answers,
telling stories about ourselves,
searching for connection, choosing
to send out Stravinsky and whale song,
which, in translation, might very well be
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We get on satellites, probes, telescopes
unfolding like origami, navigating
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Rovers...

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Listening in Deep Space

We've always been out looking for answers,
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searching for connection, choosing
to send out Stravinsky and whale song,
which, in translation, might very well be
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We equip satellites, probes, telescopes
unfolding like origami, navigating
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By Diane Thiel

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At the Equinox

The tide ebbs playing field reveals orange and purple sea stars.
I have no theory of radiance,

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In the courtyard, we speck the rising shell of a moon,
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From the Sky

When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one quite good fighting over it.

Children are playing soccer
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A grandmother is baking
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Being

Wake drop by, greet the sun, and pray.
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