In the quiet woods where whispers flow,
Among the trees where shadows grow,
The spirit of Frost dances free,
In nature’s realm, his poetry.
Leaves rustle with a gentle song,
As Frost’s verses glide along,
The brook’s laughter, the wind’s sigh,
Echo his words beneath the sky.
A snowy path, a tranquil night,
In moonlit fields, so pure and white,
Frost’s presence felt in every flake,
A silent vow, no hearts to break.
Through seasonsâ change, his essence flies,
In autumn’s gold, in spring’s sunrise,
Robert Frost’s nature, timeless and true,
In every leaf, his spirit anew.