With Robert Frost. I got a book of his poems from the library here the other day and can't get enough of them. I'm pretty sure my appreciation of poetry has tripled just since I checked out this book. It definitely helps that the book is old, not ancient..but old enough to be dignified looking. It smells like a quality kind of book too. (am I the only one who smells books?)
Anyway, I don't have time to really go into any more about this book (not that it'd be interesting to read if I did), but I just wanted to post the first poem I saw when I opened the book the other day in the library: the poem that made me get the book in the first place.
A Late Walk
by Robert Frost
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.
