Wednesday Poem-Robert Frost

A Late Walk

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.

Robert Frost

4 thoughts on “Wednesday Poem-Robert Frost

    • Jnana,

      Thanks! For me, I associate him with all the thoughts that rise up after mowing, working in a field etc. He’s quite good at mastering his form and then veering towards spoken thought within it

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