Robert FrostRobert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 January 29, 1963) was an American poet. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. His work frequently employed settings from rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes. One of the most popular and critically respected American poets of his generation, Frost was honored frequently during his lifetime, receiving four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry. Early years (1910)Frost grew up in the city, and he published his first poem in his high schools magazine. He attended Dartmouth College for two months, long enough to be accepted into the Theta Delta Chi fraternity. Frost returned home to teach and to work at various jobs including helping his mother teach her class of unruly boys, delivering newspapers, and working in a factory as an arclight carbon filament changer. He did not enjoy these jobs, feeling his true calling was poetry. (1941)As World War I began, Frost returned to America in 1915 and bought a farm in Franconia, New Hampshire, where he launched a career of writing, teaching and lecturing. This family homestead served as the Frosts summer home until 1938. It is maintained today as The Frost Place, a museum and poetry conference site. During the years 191620, 192324, and 19271938, Frost taught English at Amherst College in Massachusetts, notably encouraging his students to account for the myriad sounds and intonations of the spoken English language in their writing. He called his colloquial approach to language the sound of sense.The house where he wrote many of his poemsRobert Frost, along with Stevens and Eliot, seems to me the greatest of the American poets of this century. Frosts virtues are extraordinary. No other living poet has written so well about the actions of ordinary men; his wonderful dramatic monologues or dramatic scenes come out of knowledge of people that few poets have had, and they are written in a verse that uses, sometimes with absolute mastery, the rhythms of actual speech. It is hard to overestimate the effect of this exact, spaced-out, prosaic movement, whose objects have the tremendous strength. . .of things merely put down and left to speak for themselves. . .Frosts seriousness and honesty; the bare sorrow with which, sometimes, things are accepted as they are, neither exaggerated nor explained away; the many, many poems in which there are real people with their real speech and real thought and real emotionall this, in conjunction with so much subtlety and exactness. . .makes the reader feel that he is not in a book but a world. . .When you know Frosts poems, you know surprisingly well what the world seemed to one man. The grimness and awfulness, and untouchable sadness of things, both in the world and in the self, have justice done to them in the poems. . .but no more justice than is done to the tenderness and love and delight; and everything in between is represented somewhere too.Personal lifeRobert Frosts personal life was plagued with grief and loss. In 1885, Frost was 11, his father died of tuberculosis, leaving the family with just eight dollars to live. Frosts mother died of cancer in 1900. In 1920, Frost had to commit his younger sister Jeanie to a mental hospital, where she died nine years later. Mental illness apparently ran in Frosts family, as both he and his mother suffered from depression, and his daughter Irma was committed to a mental hospital in 1947. Frosts wife, Elinor, also experienced bouts of depression. Elinor and Robert Frost had six children: son Elliot (18961904, died of cholera); daughter Lesley Frost Ballantine (18991983); son Carol (19021940, committed suicide); daughter Irma (19031967); daughter Marjorie (19051934, died as a result of puerperal fever after childbirth); and daughter Elinor Bettina (died just three days after her birth in 1907). Only Lesley and Irma outlived their father. Frosts wife, who had heart problems throughout her life, developed breast cancer in 1937and died of heart failure in 1938. What I like most is Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningWhose woods these are I think I know.His hose is in the village thoughHe will not see me stopping hereTo watch hi woods fill up with snowMy little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farm nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistakeThe only other sounds the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.The woods are lovely, dark and deep,But a have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.雪夜林地受阻这是谁家的树林，我想我知道他的房子就在前面村里却看不到树林挡我去路看着高高的树顶的白雪我的马儿也觉得蹊跷停在了荒郊野地的树林旁边是冰湖和树木马儿摇动着脖铃问我路是不是错误只有寒风的呼啸伴着清晨寥落的寒星树林黢黑深邃我还记得我的目的在睡下之前再走几里My point on Stopp