The poetry of Robert Frost is lean and spare. So is his gravestone, embossed only with a stylized wreath. Black and white is a lean medium in itself, a perfect compliment to Frost and his art. I also liked the dampness that regularly forms around the names of Frost and his wife, Eleanor, which suggests the moisture of tears. They were born within a year of each other, yet Frost outlived her by a quarter of a century. They rest together beneath this marker, the passing of each marked by a phrase from Frost’s poetry.