Beneath the boughs of frosted pine, we tread,
In silence, where the poet’s whispers lead,
The winter’s breath, a chill upon our heads,
A journey through the woods, where thoughts are freed.

His words, like snowflakes, gently fall in line,
Each verse a crystal, pure and undefined,
They speak of roads diverged and paths reclined,
In Frost’s embrace, our hearts and minds entwined.

The birch trees stand, their bark a testament,
To seasons past and those yet to be spent,
In quiet awe, we feel the firmament,
Through Frost’s own eyes, a world of wonderment.

As twilight fades and stars begin to gleam,
We find ourselves within a snowy dream,
In Robert Frost’s eternal winter theme,
Where nature’s voice and human thought convene.