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
The chance off getting to a better Place was starting to Close. Doesnt Close it fully, gives a sample of both Worlds and gives new perspectives.
A Late Walk