In the hush of winter’s gentle embrace,Where Robert Frost’s whispers softly play,The world dons a gown of icicle lace,And time seems to pause in its quiet sway.The barren trees stand in silent repose,Their branches etched in crystalline art,As the frost paints tales only a poet knows,Of solitude and warmth in a cold heart.Beneath the leaden sky, the earth lies still,A canvas brushed with shades of white and gray,Where whispers of wind on the snow-clad hillEcho the verses of a winter’s day.In Frost’s winter, the soul finds its peace,Amidst the chill, a gentle warmth grows,For in the quiet, the heart finds release,In the silent dance of the falling snows.