Our Mid-Month’s Poet: Robert Frost
A Late Walk by Robert Frost
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.
Tom Simard 
How beautiful. I’ll have to add this poem to my other Robert Frost favorites: “The Road Not Taken” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” He really allows us to visualize being with nature and not taking it for granted. Thanks, Tom. ;-)
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My pleasure, Judy.
The two you mention are favorites of mine as well.
And he does that so well.
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