A Late Walk – Poem 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.

Author: Dennis Hickey

There are no limits to success to those who are prepared. I want to help you prepare by sharing what I have learned about life skills, and how I am still learning. Not knowing these skills can effect your personal growth. I hope you enjoy and learn from this information. Feel free to connect with me, to comment or e-mail your question and opinions. Sit back, relax and let the learning begin. Email: dhickey389@msn.com