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.
