Explore "A Late Walk" by Robert Frost on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.