When I go up through the mowing field,When I go up through the mowing field
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.
When I walk through the field after it's been mowed, The leftover grass, Is laid smoothly like a roof with heavy dew, Almost blocks the garden path.
And when I reach the garden, The sound of quiet birds Rising from the tangled dead plants Is more sorrowful than words can express.
A tree by the wall is bare, But a brown leaf that stayed, Disturbed, probably by my thoughts, Falls gently making a rattling sound.