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.
[robert frost]
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