When I go up through the mowing field, <br />The headless aftermath, <br />Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, <br />Half closes the garden path. <br /> <br />And when I come to the garden ground, <br />The whir of sober birds <br />Up from the tangle of withered weeds <br />Is sadder than any words <br /> <br />A tree beside the wall stands bare, <br />But a leaf that lingered brown, <br />Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, <br />Comes softly rattling down. <br /> <br />I end not far from my going forth <br />By picking the faded blue <br />Of the last remaining aster flower <br />To carry again to you.<br /><br />Robert Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-late-walk/
