In woods so lovely, dark, and deep,
Where Frost’s words do softly creep,
Echoes of a poet’s mind,
In every verse, a truth we find.

Beneath the birches, whispers flow,
Of paths not taken, seeds to sow,
A journey through the snowy wood,
Where choices made are understood.

His pen, a wand of winter’s grace,
Captures silence, time, and space,
Painting scenes of rural life,
With every word, a world in strife.

From stone walls to snowy eves,
He weaves a tale that never leaves,
A poet’s heart, a wanderer’s soul,
In Robert Frost, we find our whole.