Chrysanthemum

By Oliver Wendell Holmes

Ere Advent dawns with lessening days,
While earth awaits the angel's hymn,
When bare as branching coral sways
In whistling winds each leafless limb,
When spring is but a spendthrift's dream,
And summer's wealth a wasted dower
Nor dews nor sunshine may redeem,
Then autumn coins his golden flower.

Soft was the violet's vernal hue,
Fresh was the rose's morning red,
Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew --
All gone! Their short-lived beauty shed:
The shadows, lengthening, stretch at noon,
The fields are stripped, the grooves are dumb,
The frost-flowers greet the icy moon --
Still blooms the bright Chrysanthemum.

Orphan of summer, kindly sent
To cheer the waning year's decline;
Of all that pitying heaven has lent,
No fairer pledge of hope than thine.
Yes! June lies hid beneath the snow,
And winter's unborn heir shall claim
In every seed that sleeps below
A spark that kindles into flame.


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