Along the woods, where shadows play,
Beneath the boughs, where whispers stay,
Robert Frost’s words softly glide,
In nature’s arms, they gently bide.
His pen like leaves, in autumn’s fall,
Captures moments, big and small,
The road less traveled, calls anew,
With every step, a deeper view.
Winter’s chill and summerâs glow,
In his lines, the seasons flow,
A serene dance of time and place,
In Frost’s embrace, we find our grace.
Through silent woods and snowy eves,
His poetry, the heart believes,
A timeless echo, pure and clear,
In Frost’s world, we hold dear.