“A Late Walk” (Robert Frost)

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.