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.
