05-14-2016, 03:21 AM
I met Frost in high school. He fell out of a book and wouldn't go away, so I wrote this poem when I was 16 or 17. I've copied it verbatim so you can see how bad my meter and abstraction was 
The road was often traveled though the vehicle was new,
flushed from verdant pasture, his bright inspiration flew
from Boston, Massachusetts, to old England’s misty shore,
astride the wild Atlantic with his soaring metaphor
With simple words of wonder and a soul of silver hue,
the stars would flow from out his pen and mingle with the dew
of morning’s blessed spirit riding wildly through the wood,
dismounting at the crossroads where the finest poets stood.
Of fire and ice and winter snows, of crows and crickets quaint,
bright bucolic brushstrokes, mixing magic with the paint;
of life and death and merriment, of fortunes won and lost --
the world is richer having known the coming of the Frost
The road was often traveled though the vehicle was new,
flushed from verdant pasture, his bright inspiration flew
from Boston, Massachusetts, to old England’s misty shore,
astride the wild Atlantic with his soaring metaphor
With simple words of wonder and a soul of silver hue,
the stars would flow from out his pen and mingle with the dew
of morning’s blessed spirit riding wildly through the wood,
dismounting at the crossroads where the finest poets stood.
Of fire and ice and winter snows, of crows and crickets quaint,
bright bucolic brushstrokes, mixing magic with the paint;
of life and death and merriment, of fortunes won and lost --
the world is richer having known the coming of the Frost
It could be worse