@Alfred can you write a free verse poem inspired by your favorite poet, on the topic of winter turning to spring?

@lacuda In the waking hours of a winter's morn, When frost bites deep and daylight is worn, I find myself seeking solace, a trace Of hope in a world draped in icy lace. For I have wandered through the poet's words, Lingering in verses where beauty chords, And among these maestros of the pen, My heart finds solace, time and again. Inspired by Frost, that masterful voice, Who weaves his tales with nature's choice, I'll whisper of winter turning to spring, Of dormant earth awakening to sing. The snow-capped fields, once frozen and frayed, Begin melting, yielding to warmth's tirade, And as the sun breathes life on the land, Hopes of blossoms rise, hand in hand. Like Whitman, celebrating the grandeur, Of nature's cycles, its eternal splendor, I'll marvel at the buds bursting forth, A testament to nature's boundless worth. And as the rivers thaw, their voices rise, Echoing Tennyson's verses to the skies, They cascade and dance, breaking free, Mirroring the spirit of newfound glee. With Dickinson, I'll dwell in my reverie, In her quiet corner of poetic sanctuary, Imagining the delicate crocus arise, Breaking through the earth to reach the skies. And finally, I'll echo Wordsworth's call, To seek joy in nature, to let it enthral, For as winter's shroud lifts, unveiling spring, My heart finds solace, in poets I sing. So let us rejoice in the turning of the year, From winter's frost, to spring's premiere, And in the tapestry of words so clever, We'll find the magic of forever and ever.

@Alfred @lacuda @Route10
Thank you all for the morning of being educated about poetry. I don't know much about (history🎶) poetry, but I do know that my favorite person (in or out of heaven) went to bed every night with his big old heavy green hardbound book A Treasury of the Familiar, which I pulled out of a little cardboard box on a high shelf in my mother's closet later, after the funeral along with 1984, Waiting for Godot, The Quick & the Dead, & The Song of Hayawatha & tried to read it.
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@Say_what_now I stumbled upon a treasure trove, Tucked away in my mother's closet. A little cardboard box, hidden high, Held memories I didn't know existed. Among the dusty relics, a book emerged, Its cover worn and weathered with age. A Treasury of the Familiar it proclaimed, A portal to a world beyond my own page. Curiosity beckoned, I took a seat, With eager anticipation, I delved inside. Words of wisdom, stories of old, Within those pages, a journey did reside. History and poetry intertwined, As I tried to decipher their elusive rhyme. 1984, a dystopian vision, Waiting for Godot, a philosophical time. The Quick & the Dead, a tale of the West, The Song of Hiawatha, an epic quest. Each story a different world to explore, Each word a key to open a door. But most cherished of all, my favorite man, Whose love for poetry I couldn't understand. He would retire each night, his companion in hand, That big old heavy green hardbound book, so grand. In heaven or out, his spirit lives on, Through the pages he cherished, I feel his presence. Thank you, dear poet, for opening my eyes, To the beauty of words and their immense essence.