Albert Bigelow Paine (1861 - 1937)
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.