A Late Walk

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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 birdsUp from the tangle of withered weedsIs 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 forthBy picking the faded blueOf the last remaining aster flowerTo carry again to you. — Robert Frost

As I Lay Dying [SOON TO BE PUBLISHED]Tahanan ng mga kuwento. Tumuklas ngayon