New Hampshire Quotes

“The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
Throws down in front of us is not to bar
Our passage to our journey's end for good,
But just to ask us who we think we are”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“For to be social is to be forgiving.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“No wonder poets sometimes have to seem
So much more businesslike than businessmen.
Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire: The Poetry of Robert Frost

“I make a virtue of my suffering
From nearly everything that goes on round me.
In other words, I know wherever I am,
Being the creature of literature I am,
I shall not lack for pain to keep me awake.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire: The Poetry of Robert Frost

“The melancholy of having to count souls
Where they grow fewer and fewer every year
Is extreme where they shrink to none at all.
It must be I want life to go on living.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“I may as well confess myself the author
Of several books against the world in general.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“If I must choose which I would elevate—
The people or the already lofty mountains,
I'd elevate the already lofty mountains.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“I had not taken the first step in knowledge;
I had not learned to let go with the hands,
As still I have not learned to with the heart.
And have no wish to with the heart—nor need.
That I can see. The mind—is not the heart.
I may yet live, as I know others live,
To wish in vain to let go with the mind—
Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me
That I need learn to let go with the heart.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“[…] Do you know,
Considering the market, there are more
Poems produced than any other thing?
No wonder poets sometimes have to seem
So much more businesslike than businessmen.
Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire

“The birds that came to it through the air
At broken windows flew out and in,
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh
From too much dwelling on what has been.

Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,
And the aged elm, though touched with fire;
And the dry pump fung up an awkward arm;
And the fence post carried a strand of wire.

For them there was really nothing sad.
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,
One had to be versed in country things
Not to believe the phoebes wept.”
― Robert Frost, New Hampshire