Poetry

[szarabasjka]

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.

- Robert Frost

So someone made me remember I kinda have my head full of weird info and this one came to me.
I love it, it makes me remember of christmas for some weird reason