In woods of gold and twilight’s wane,
Where whispers of the past remain,
Robert Frost found his solace there,
Among the trees, the crisp cold air.

His pen would dance on winter’s crust,
Telling tales of snow and trust,
Of paths diverged in yellow wood,
And choices made where none else stood.

He sang of mending walls and streams,
Of rural life and midnight dreams,
With every line, a truth unveiled,
In simple words, vast worlds entailed.

Through seasons’ change and life’s embrace,
Frost captured nature’s fleeting grace,
With each poem, a timeless quest,
For meaning in the wild’s unrest.