by Robert Frost
Love and a Question

A Late Walk

He courts the autumnal mood.
 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.