Robert Frost:

A Late Walk


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A Late Walk

  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.



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