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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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