A Late Walk

"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, "A Late Walk"


That last stanza -- beautiful. It makes me sad, in a melancholic way.