A Late Walk

By 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.

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on whatsapp
Share on telegram
Share on email

Read More Poetry

Invictus By William Ernest Henley

Invictus By William Ernest Henley Out of the night that covers me,      Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may be      For my

A Red, Red Rose By Robert Burns

A Red, Red Rose By Robert Burns O my luve’s like a red, red rose,That’s newly sprung in June;O my luve’s like the melodieThat’s sweetly