Spider

A Late Walk 
by Robert Frost - 1913 

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.