Robert Frost

It never could have happened in New Hampshire.

I sha’n’t be gone long.⁠—You come too.

Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

New York (five million) laughs at Manchester,

Part of a moon was falling down the west, Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.

I’d hate to be a runaway from nature.

It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row, The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

It’s restful to arrive at a decision, And restful just to think about New Hampshire. At present I am living in Vermont.

You and I know enough to know it’s warm Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.

The melancholy of having to count souls Where they grow fewer and fewer every year Is extreme where they shrink to none at all.

You’d better tuck your money under you And sleep on it the way I always do When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.

It must be I want life to go on living.

There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people.

Name children some names and see what you do.

‘Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.’

I had not learned to let go with the hands, As still I have not learned to with the heart,

But suppose she had missed it from the Creed As a child misses the unsaid Good-night, And falls asleep with heartache⁠—how should I feel?

Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.

“Who cares what they say? It’s a nice way to live, Just taking what Nature is willing to give, Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.”