When I go up through the mowing field,
And tread the aftermath,
With dew laid thick on folded blades,
That close the garden path.
And when I reach the garden soil,
The sober birds take flight,
From tangles withered, dry and dead,
Their wings distill the night.
A tree beside the crumbling wall,
Stands bare, and leaf that\'s brown,
Disturbed by thought, it murmurs loose,
And softly shrouds the ground.
I end my walk as I began,
By plucking petals few,
The last pale aster in the field,
I carry back to you.