In the quiet woods where shadows play,
A poet’s voice has gone away.
His words once danced with frost and fire,
Now whisper softly, they never tire.

In winter’s grip, his pen did flow,
With tales of sorrow, joy, and snow.
He walked the paths both dark and light,
Leaving footprints in the night.

The road he chose was less traveled by,
And many a soul he did inspire.
With nature’s brush, he painted scenes,
Of birch trees, walls, and distant dreams.

Though Robert Frost now rests in sleep,
His legacy we shall always keep.
In every line, his spirit gleams,
A timeless thread in poetry’s seams.