Why should this flower delay so long

   To show its tremulous plumes?

Now is the time of plaintive robin-song,

   When flowers are in their tombs.

Through the slow summer, when the sun

   Called to each frond and whorl

That all he could for flowers was being done,

   Why did it not uncurl?

It must have felt that fervid call

   Although it took no heed,

Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall,

   And saps all retrocede.

Too late its beauty, lonely thing,

   The season’s shine is spent,

Nothing remains for it but shivering

   In tempests turbulent.

Had it a reason for delay,

   Dreaming in witlessness

That for a bloom so delicately gay

   Winter would stay its stress?

—I talk as if the thing were born

   With sense to work its mind;

Yet it is but one mask of many worn

   By the Great Face behind.