In my Autumn garden I was fain

To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To Autumn's languid sun and rain When all the world is on the wane! Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June, Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk, You are but coarse compared with roses: More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk, That least and last which cold winds balk; A rose it is though least and last of all, A rose to me though at the fall.