In the quiet whispers of the midnight air,
Robert Frost’s words weave through the night,
His verses, a dance of shadows and light,
Painting the world with a poet’s care.

Through woods so lovely, dark, and deep,
He wanders paths where silence reigns,
Each line a journey, a release of chains,
In nature’s arms, his soul to keep.

The frost-kissed leaves beneath his tread,
Speak of dreams and fleeting time,
Each step, a rhythm, a silent rhyme,
In the realm where thoughts are led.

And as the dawn begins to rise,
The echoes of his voice remain,
In every whisper of the rain,
A poet’s legacy beneath the skies.