Five Days Of Sylvik

[Hadley Quesnilia]

 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.