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.