When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words

A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.

I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

Added: on April 27th, 2009 at 6:00 PM | Viewed: 46845 times | Comments (12)

Poet: Robert Frost (Robert Frost Art)
Poem: 5. A Late Walk
Volume: A Boy's Will
Year: Published/Written in 1913

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