A Late Walk

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A Poem by Robert Frost

When I go up through the mowing field,

The headless aftermath,

Smooth-laid like thatch with 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.

    

Poetry by Robert Frost

Image © Copyright 2016, ancient skies

Peace and blessings to everyone.

“When we love people, we give them hope.”

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