A Late Walk

by Robert Frost

　　

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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 birdsUp from the tangle of withered weedsIs 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 forthBy picking the faded blueOf the last remaining aster flowerTo carry again to you.

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