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.