Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Reference: poetryfoundation.org

پ.ن: رابرت تو بی نظیری... حرفات دلنشینه... روحت شاد...

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.

 Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
 And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
 Not all your light tongues talking aloud
 Could be profound.

 But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
 And if you have seen me when I slept,
 You have seen me when I was taken and swept
 And all but lost.

 That day she put our heads together,
 Fate had her imagination about her,
 Your head so much concerned with outer,
 Mine with inner, weather. 

پ.ن: رابرت هرچی بگم بازم حق مطلب ادا نشده. رابرت تو بی نظیری. روحت شاد..

src: https://www.internal.org/Robert_Frost/Tree_at_my_Window

- Goddamn it, Andrew! If you're going to succeed at this thing you're trying to do... you've got to stop being so damn deferential.
+ I can't help being deferential. It's built-in.
- Then change.
+ Change? I have changed.
- I don't mean on the outside. Change on the inside. Take chances, make mistakes.

+ mistakes?

- Yes, Sometimes it's important not to be perfect, okay? It's important to do the wrong thing!
+Do the wrong thing?
-Yes.
+ Why? oh I see. To learn from your mistakes.
- No. To make them! To find out what's real and what's not, to find out what you feel. Human beings are terrible messes.
+ I'll grant you that. I see. This is what is known as an irrational conversation, isn't it?
- This is a human conversation. It's not about being rational. It's about following your heart.
+ And that's what I should do?
-Yes. And you have a heart, Andrew. I feel it. I don't even believe it sometimes, but I do feel it.
+ And in order to follow that heart... one must do the wrong thing.
- Yes.
+ Thank you.

+So you're not married yet?
-No, two weeks from Saturday.
+I'm not too late. Are you positive you're doing the right thing?
-Positive?
+About getting married?
-I'm never positive about anything.
+You could be doing the wrong thing.
-I'm pretty sure I'm doing the right thing.
+Great.
-Why is that great?
+well, You told me to do the wrong thing. now you aren't doing the wrong thing, you're doing the right thing. You're not following your own advice, 'cause if you were you wouldn't marry him.
-Because I would be doing the right thing.
+Precisely.
-In some strange way, you're starting to make sense.
+Good. give me an idea of what it's like to be in love with someone who's marrying someone else? Someone who's magnificent? Someone who walks into a room and lights it up like the sun? Someone who you know is lying to herself?
-Lying?
+Convincingly. Very very much so.
-About what?
+That you don't love me when I know, at least in some way, you do.
-And how do you know that?
+ Portia, I have done everything, inside and out.
-That stuff doesn't matter to me.
+Something matters. If nothing mattered, you'd love me... and not some man whose chin could sink the Titanic.
- What?

+ See? It's true, isn't it?
Sorry.
Does he light you up like this? Does he make you laugh?
-Nobody makes me laugh like this.
+Good. Then admit it. Admit that you love me. Give me one kiss. That's all. So one quick kiss. Just one kiss could not jeopardise a glorious marriage. It would also explain why your pulse just jumped from 66 to 102 beats per minute. Your respiration is doubled. You're putting out clouds of pheromones.
-It's not fair to read me like that.
+I know. Love isn't fair. I'm reading your heart. I'm asking you to follow it. Begging you. Begging is supposed to be humiliating. I don't care. I love you, Portia. I loved you the very first moment I saw you.

April Rain

One Is Glad to Be of Service 

(In Memory of Robin Williams) 

A tree’s leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bark, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.

But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.

Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.

I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.

Leaves and bark, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.

(A Further Range, 1937)

پ.ن: استاد من رابرت تو بینظیری.. فوقالعاده ای... موهای تنم سیخ میشه میخونم شعراتو

The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.

The verses in it say and say:
“The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay.”

So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can’t help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?

It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.

I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.

I’ve tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I’ve tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first-water start almost shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later,
I’ve pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

You’ll wait a long, long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.
It is true the longest drought will end in rain,
The longest peace in China will end in strife.
Still it wouldn’t reward the watcher to stay awake
In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
On his particular time and personal sight.
That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night.

پ.ن: رابرت شعراتو دوست دارم... دنیارو تونستی تمیز ببینی و نگاه تمیز داشتنو یاد بدی...

پیرایه یغمایی، زندگی رابرت فراست و تحلیلی بر شعر راه ناپیموده

ویکیپدیای رابرت فراست فارسی | انگلیسی

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;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

پ.ن: رابرت تو بی نظیری .... شعر و حست هنوز بعد از 103 سال هنوز تراوت خودشو داره... این شعرت خوشمزس به اندازه قرمه سبزی که رو رو اجاق مونده و سرد شده... یا  ماکارونی که بعد از دوباره داغ کردنش خوردنی میشه، 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44272/the-road-not-taken