When I go 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.
Lovely poem. Invokes the mood of autumn..my favourite Frost poem is 'The Road Less Travelled'
ReplyDeleteYes, Jules, very autumnal. I had the opportunity to visit Robert Frost's farm in New Hampshire not too long ago. It was a wonderful experience to walk along the paths under the silver birches.
ReplyDeleteI love Robert Frost - so evocative - thank you!
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