The Last Chrysanthemum

Why should this flower delay so long 

To show its tremulous plumes? 

Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, 

When flowers are in their tombs. 

Through the slow summer, when the sun 

Called to each frond and whorl 

That all he could for flowers was being done, 

Why did it not uncurl? 

It must have felt that fervid call 

Although it took no heed, 

Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, 

And saps all retrocede. 

Too late its beauty, lonely thing, 

The season's shine is spent, 

Nothing remains for it but shivering 

In tempests turbulent. 

Had it a reason for delay, 

Dreaming in witlessness 

That for a bloom so delicately gay 

Winter would stay its stress? 

I talk as if the thing were born 

With sense to work its mind; 

Yet it is but one mask of many worn 

By the Great Face behind. 

-o0o-

This poem concludes the series here. The blog continues tomorrow in

Johns Mixed Bag Blog

johnsmixedbagblog.blogspot.com