Apple-green west and an orange bar, And the crystal eye of a lone, one star … And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will, Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still."
Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud, And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd, The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied, — The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.
The dahlias I might not touch till to-night! A gleam of the shears in the fading light, And I gathered them all, — the splendid throng, And in one great sheaf I bore them along.
. . . . .
In my garden of Life with its all-late flowers I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours: "Frost to-night — so clear and dead-still" … Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.