Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Tree at My Window, st. 1, West-Running Brook (1928).)

"Really, friend, I can't let you. You may need them."
"Not till I shrink, when they'll be out of style."
"But really I??I have so many collars."
"I don't know who I rather would have have them.
They're only turning yellow where they are.
But you're the doctor, as the saying is.
I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me...."

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Hundred Collars.")

States strong enough to do good are but few.
Their number would seem limited to three.

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "No Holy Wars for Them.")

"... It's a day's work
To empty one house of all household goods
And fill another with 'em fifteen miles away,
Although you do no more than dump them down."

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "In the Home Stretch.")

Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Directive (l. 61-62). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.)

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. A Soldier (l. 1-3). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.)

Lancaster bore him such a little town,
Such a great man. It doesn't see him often
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead
And sends the children down there with their mother
To run wild in the summer a little wild.

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. "A Hundred Collars.")

Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. Tree at My Window (l. 15-16). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.)

I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed:

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. The Onset (l. 13-14). . . The Poetry of Robert Frost. Edward Connery Lathem, ed. (1979) Henry Holt.)

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.

(Robert Frost (1874-1963), U.S. poet. The Figure a Poem Makes, Collected Poems (1939).)