CHRYSANTHEMUM. 339 



CHRYSANTHEMUM. 



BEATRICE STURGES. 



Oh, thou art come, 



Chrysanthemum ! 



Of course 



I must start off 



Like that. 



There's little else 



To say or hum, 



For thy sweet sake, 



Chrysanthemum, 



Thou radiant star 



Of crisp Autumn. 



If thou wert but 



Divided up, 



Chrysanthemum, 



I might make rhyme 



In better time, 



Chrysanthemum, 



But it is hard 



For a young bard 



To think of words that chime with you, 



Chrysanthemum. 



Poets never sing of thee 



In odes and madrigals and things 



As of the rose, the violet and lily. 



It's late when thou dost come, 



Chrysanthemum, 



And I guess they're getting chilly, 



Or maybe they're struck dumb 



At sight of thee, 



Chrysanthemum. 



For you must own 



Chrysanthemum, 



You stand alone, 



Chrysanthemum. 



When you arrive, 



The poet's up against it. 



But, oh, 



Chrysanthemum, 



You are a regal sight, 



With long and ragged leaves 



Like cold-slaw, 



And lovely foamy top 



Like whipped cream. 



You ought to be 



Immortalized in song, 



And so 



I 



This little anthem hum 



To thee, 



Oh, 



Fair chrysanthemum. 



