Beneath the whispering pines and the evening’s glow,
Robert Frost walked, where the stillness flowed.
With each step, he left behind a trace,
Of poems and thoughts, in nature’s embrace.

The woods were silent, but his voice still there,
In the rustle of leaves and the crisp, cool air.
He spoke of paths diverging in the yellow wood,
And choices made, as only a poet could.

Now he rests where the birches sway,
In a realm beyond the reach of day.
His words, a legacy, forever to remain,
In hearts and minds, like a gentle rain.

The snow, the stars, the endless night,
All bear witness to his soulful flight.
And though he’s gone, his spirit roams,
In nature’s verses, in quiet homes.