Chrysanthemums

They do not come when gorgeous June is here, Nor with the pomp of August passing by. But when the roadside asters are all gone With the last trace of summer from the fields— When the last cricket has long since been hushed And earth awaits in silence the first frost— In white and mauve, dark red and antique gold, These true patricians of the garden come. When snow is in the air and low gray skies Are bleak with coming winter, like a host In medieval frescoes many-hued With banners and TE DEUMS, they return To offer brave Thanksgiving and to grace Deserted gardens with their noble praise.