Evening Walk

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.