In the quiet woods where shadows dance,
Robert Frost’s spirit takes a chance,
To weave his words with nature’s grace,
And find his solace in this place.
The birches bend, the streams do flow,
Underneath the moon’s soft glow,
His poetry a gentle breeze,
Whispering secrets through the trees.
The snow lies deep on paths untrod,
A silent hymn to nature’s god,
Each step he takes in frost-kissed field,
A tale of life and love revealed.
Beneath the stars, the night so still,
His words a lantern on the hill,
Guiding us through dark and light,
With nature’s wonders in his sight.