In the quiet woods where shadows play,
The whispers of frost linger and stay.
A poet’s journey comes to an end,
In nature’s arms, his soul descends.

The snowy paths he often tread,
Now echo softly with words unsaid.
A gentle breeze through branches weaves,
A tribute to the one who leaves.

His verses painted with winter’s grace,
Now find their rest in a tranquil place.
The woods remember, the fields recall,
The quiet voice that spoke to all.

Though the sun sets on his earthly tale,
His words like stars in night prevail.
In every frost, his legacy gleams,
Forever part of nature’s dreams.