A Prayer In Spring – Poem by Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;And give us not to think so far awayAs the uncertain harvest; keep us hereAll simply in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;And make us happy in the happy bees,The swarm dilating round

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The Rose Family – Poem by Robert Frost

The rose is a rose,And was always a rose.But the theory now goesThat the apple’s a rose,And the pear is, and so’sThe plum, I suppose.The dear only knowsWhat will next prove a rose.You, of course, are a rose –But were always a rose.

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A Time To Talk – Poem by Robert Frost

When a friend calls to me from the roadAnd slows his horse to a meaning walk,I don’t stand still and look aroundOn 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

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A Considerable Speck – Poem by Robert Frost

A speck that would have been beneath my sightOn any but a paper sheet so whiteSet off across what I had written there.And I had idly poised my pen in airTo stop it with a period of inkWhen something strange about it made me think,This was no dust speck by my breathing blown,But unmistakably a

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Birches – Poem by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and rightAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen themLoaded with ice a sunny winter morningAfter a rain. They click upon themselvesAs the breeze rises, and turn

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A Boundless Moment – Poem by Robert Frost

He halted in the wind, and – what was thatFar in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?He stood there bringing March against his thought,And yet too ready to believe the most. ‘Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,’ I said;And truly it was fair enough for flowershad we but in us to assume in marchSuch white luxuriance

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A Brook In The City – Poem by Robert Frost

The farmhouse lingers, though averse to squareWith the new city street it has to wearA number in. But what about the brookThat held the house as in an elbow-crook?I ask as one who knew the brook, its strengthAnd impulse, having dipped a finger lengthAnd made it leap my knuckle, having tossedA flower to try its

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Asking For Roses – Poem by Robert Frost

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,With doors that none but the wind ever closes,Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;‘I wonder,’ I say, ‘who the owner of those is.’‘Oh, no one you know,’ she

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Mending Wall – Poem by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,And spills the upper boulders in the sun;And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.The work of hunters is another thing:I have come after them and made repairWhere they have left not one stone on a stone,But they would have the rabbit out

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ġham tumhārā thā zindagī goyā tum ko khoyā use nahīñ khoyā fart-e-girya se jī na halkā ho bas yahī soch kar nahīñ royā ashk to ashk haiñ sharāb se bhī maiñ ne ye dāġh-e-dil nahīñ dhoyā maiñ vo kisht-e-nashāt kyoñ kāTūñ jis ko maiñ ne kabhī nahīñ boyā aabla aabla thī jaañ phir bhī bār-e-hastī

safed chhaDiyan

janam kā andhā jo soch aur sach ke rāstoñ par kabhī kabhī koī ḳhvāb dekhe to ḳhvāb meñ bhī azaab dekhe ye shāhrāh-e-hayat jis par hazār-hā qāfile ravāñ haiñ sabhī kī āñkheñ har ek kā dil sabhī ke raste sabhī kī manzil isī hujūm-e-kashāñ-kashāñ meñ tamām chehroñ kī dāstāñ meñ na naam merā na zaat


vo kaisā shobada-gar thā jo masnūī sitāroñ aur naqlī sūrajoñ kī ik jhalak dikhlā ke mere saada dil logoñ kī āñkhoñ ke diye hoñToñ ke jugnū le gayā aur ab ye aalam hai ki mere shahr kā har ik makāñ ik ġhaar kī mānind mahrūm-e-navā hai aur hañstā boltā har shaḳhs ik dīvār-e-girya hai


ai siyah-fām hasīna tirā uryāñ paikar kitnī pathrā.ī huī āñkhoñ meñ ġhaltīda hai jaane kis daur-e-alama-nāk se le kar ab tak tū kaḌe vaqt ke zindānoñ meñ ḳhvābīda hai tere sab rañg hayūle ke ye be-jān nuqūsh jaise marbūt ḳhayālāt ke tāne-bāne ye tirī sāñvlī rañgat ye pareshān ḳhutūt bārhā jaise miTāyā ho inheñ duniyā