out through the fields and the woods
& over the walls i have wended;
i have climbed the hills of view
& i looked at the world, and descended;
i have come by the highway home,
& lo, it is ended.
the leaves are all dead on the ground,
save those that the oak is keeping
to ravel them one by one
& let them go scraping & creeping
out over the crusted snow,
when others are sleeping.
& the dead leaves lie huddled & still,
no longer blown hither & thither;
the last lone aster is gone;
the flowers of the witch hazel wither;
the heart is still aching to seek,
but the feet question "whither?"
ah, when to the heart of man
was it ever less than a treason
to go with the drift of things,
& bow & accept the end
of a love or a season?
robert frost
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