About Him:He was born in San Francisco on march 26, 1874. His father was a journalist who edited a city newspaper, and his mother was a teacher. Robert eventually tried his hand a both professions, but loved nothing more than poetry. His father was born in the south, but moved to New Hampshire, and then to California during the Civil War. Robert is named after the South's most famous war general, Robert E. Lee. At the age of 16, Frost began to write poetry, and at 19, he sent his first poem to a magazine called The Independent. During this time, he would wander through the woods reading a collection of British poems. In 1900, he, his wife, and his daughter moved to a farm. Late at night, after he was done working on the farm, he wrote poems such as "Mending Wall" and "October." After ten years on the farm, he sold it and moved to London. They moved into a country farmhouse thatched with thick straw. From London, he was able to start his poem writing career. His first published poem as a professional was called "A Boy's Will" and was published in 1912. When his poetry finally became successful and popular in the US, he moved his family back there. "The Road Not Taken"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. AnalysisThe author first paints a picture of what he sees. There are two roads in the woods, each coated with a layer of yellow leaves. Being one traveler, he could only pick one road to travel down. He looked down on as far as he could, but decided to take the less travelled one. He had kept the first for another day, but also knew that because life is the way it is, he might never be back at the fork in the road ever again.
This connects with his life because he lived around nature for most of his poem-writing life. He loved to reveal through the woods and read British poetry, as well as sit late at night on his farm writing whatever popped into his head.
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