by Robert Frost
My Butterfly


 OUT through the fields and the woods    And over the walls I have wended;  I have climbed the hills of view    And looked at the world, and descended;  I have come by the highway home,    And lo, it is ended.   The leaves are all dead on the ground,    Save those that the oak is keeping  To ravel them one by one    And let them go scraping and creeping  Out over the crusted snow,    When others are sleeping.   And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,    No longer blown hither and thither;  The last lone aster is gone;    The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;  The heart is still aching to seek,    But the feet question 'Whither?'   Ah, when to the heart of man    Was it ever less than a treason  To go with the drift of things,    To yield with a grace to reason,  And bow and accept the end    Of a love or a season?