Aftermath

The herald redbreast sings his winter lays,
The fieldfares drift in flocks adown the weald:
The turbulent rooks gather on every field,
And clamorous starlings dare our garden-ways:
O beautiful garden-ways, not grown less dear
Because the rose has gone, and briony waves
Where lily and purple iris have their graves,
Or that, where violets were, the asters rear.

Lo, what a sheen of colour lingers still,
Though the autumnal rains and frost be come:
The tall dishevelled sunflowers, stooping, spill
Lost rays of sunshine o'er the tangled mould,
While everywhere, touched with a glory of gold,
Flaunts the imperial chrysanthemum.
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