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Home: Poetry: Robert Frost: A Late Walk
| A LATE WALK |
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a poem by Robert Frost
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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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| "A Late Walk" is reprinted from A Boy's Will. Robert Frost. New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1915. |
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