Chrysanthemum - A poem by Albert Bigelow Paine

CHRYSANTHEMUM.

Across a waste of moorland, bleak and bare,
   A lonely bird is flying, calling low^___
   The last of all the feathered host to go,
   And loth to leave still lingers, calling, there.
   Within my silent garden-passes, where
   The flowers are withered that in summer blow,
   I walk with murmuring ghosts, that to and fro
Sway gently in the chill November air;

When, lo! I mark a little way apart
   The sovereign glory of this waning year
   That now, alone, unheralded hath come,
In gorgeous robes^___alas, my fickle heart
   Forgets the dead, and laughs that she is here,
   The royal queen of fall, Chrysanthemum.

^__Albert Bigelow Paine.