Beneath the trees where shadows play,
Where frost’s whispers softly lay,
A poet’s heart in nature’s hold,
His tales of life, so gently told.

In woods so dark, with paths unknown,
He walked, he pondered, all alone,
With every step, a verse would form,
Through seasons bright and winter’s storm.

The miles to go, the promises kept,
In quiet nights when others slept,
His words would dance upon the breeze,
Among the leaves, beneath the trees.

Oh, Robert Frost, your voice so clear,
In lines of joy, in moments dear,
Through time your spirit still does tread,
In every rhyme your soul is spread.