Why should this flower delay so long br    To show its tremulous plumes? br Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, br    When flowers are in their tombs. br br Through the slow summer, when the sun br    Called to each frond and whorl br That all he could for flowers was being done, br    Why did it not uncurl? br br It must have felt that fervid call br    Although it took no heed, br Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, br    And saps all retrocede. br br Too late its beauty, lonely thing, br    The season's shine is spent, br Nothing remains for it but shivering br    In tempests turbulent. br br Had it a reason for delay, br    Dreaming in witlessness br That for a bloom so delicately gay br    Winter would stay its stress? br br - I talk as if the thing were born br    With sense to work its mind; br Yet it is but one mask of many worn br    By the Great Face behind.