Quotes Robert Frost - page 3
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Style is that which indicates how the writer takes himself and what he is saying. It is the mind skating circles around itself as it moves forward.
The Master Speed No speed of wind or water rushing by but you have speed far greater. You can climb back up a stream of radiance to the sky, and back through history up the stream of time. And you were given this swiftness, not for haste nor chiefly that you may go where you will, but in the rush of everything to waste, that you may have the power of standing still-- off any still or moving thing you say. Two such as you with such a master speed From one another once you are agreed that life is only life forevermore together wing to wing and oar to oar.
Let's get my incantation right:
"I wish I may, I wish I might"
Give earth another satellite.
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I fail to see what fun, what satisfaction / A God can find in laughing at how badly / Men fumble at the possibilities.
Everyone asks for freedom for himself,
The man free love, the businessman free trade,
The writer and talker free speech and free press.
Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.
I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Many lovers have been divorced
By having what is free enforced.
Freedom is slavery some poets tell us.
Enslave yourself to the right leader's truth,
Christ's or Karl Marx', and it will set you free.
If society fits you comfortably enough, you call it freedom.
There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you with so much quail shot that you can't move, and the kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you jump to the skies.
The best way out is always through.
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.
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The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all.
