 
 Out through the fields and the woods
 And over the walls I have wended;
 I have climbed the hills of view
 And looked and the earth, and descended;
 I have come by the highway home
 And 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
 And let them go scraping and creeping
 Out over the crusted snow
 While others are sleeping.

 The dead leaves lie huddled and still,
 No longer blown hither and 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
 And yield with a grace to reason,
 And bow and accept the end
 Of a love or a season?

- Robert Frost
