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A Late Walk
by Robert Frost
[from A Boy’s Will (1913)]

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. 

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