HOMELY, forgotten flower, Under the rose's bower, Plain as a weed, Thou, the half-summer long, Waitest and waxest strong, Even as waits a song Till men shall heed. Then, when the lilies die, And the carnations lie In spicy death, Over thy bushy sprays Burst with a sudden blaze Stars of the August days, With Autumn's breath. Fain would the calyx hold; But splits, and half the gold Spills lavishly: Frost, that the rose appalls, Wastes not thy coronals, Till Summer's lustre falls And fades in thee. |