Thursday, July 8, 2010

A Late Walk

by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)
      HEN 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. 
      Photo Cred: Hana

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