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.
Somehow, I don’t think of Frost as a nature poet, but this definitely thickens the plot.
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
Yes. Living in New Hampshire, I’ve come to appreciate his grounding in Whittier, too, who spent a lot of time in my state.
Jnana,
Thanks very much. I’ll have to take a look at Whittier again over the next week or so. It’s been a while!