In the quiet woods where shadows play,
The poet’s whispers fade away,
Beneath the boughs where secrets lay,
Robert Frost has gone to stay.

The winter’s breath, a silent call,
Echoes through the trees so tall,
His words now rest, a gentle fall,
In nature’s arms, he gave his all.

The frost that clings to morning light,
Reminds us of his final flight,
A journey to the endless night,
Where poets’ dreams take silent flight.

Yet in each verse, his spirit lingers,
In every line, we trace his fingers,
Through time and space, his voice still singers,
A legacy that forever triggers.