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.