A Late Walk by Robert Frost

In November when the leaves wither, the flowers fall, and the grass turns brown everything is but a faded image of brilliant summer glory.  The Thanksgiving Season leaves wonderful memories but a feeling of longing; what is, what was, could have been, to do once more…

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