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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DREAM LIFE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE CHILDREN by CHARLES MONROE DICKINSON EPITAPH ON AN ARMY OF MERCENARIES by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE SOBBING OF THE BELLS (MIDNIGHT, SEPT. 19-20, 1881) by WALT WHITMAN PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 84. DHU'L JADAL WA'L IKRAM by EDWIN ARNOLD SOLUTION OF THE CHARADE IN THE MUSEUM FOR OCTOBER by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE ARTIST PHILOSOPHER by DAISY MAUD BELLIS |