In quiet woods where shadows play,
He found his muse in nature’s sway.
The paths he took, both right and wrong,
Became the heart of every song.

With snowy evenings calm and deep,
His verses danced where silence sleeps.
Each flake a word, each drift a rhyme,
In winter’s chill, he captured time.

The walls he mended, stones aligned,
Spoke of barriers undefined.
Through every line, his thoughts revealed,
The mysteries that nature healed.

So, as we read his crafted lines,
We walk with him through ancient pines.
In every poem, a piece of soul,
Robert Frost’s words, forever whole.