Only asters gone to seed,
Goldenrod and fennel-weed
Make her meager diadem,
Brede her snowy cuffs and hem.
Stitch the blossoms gone to feather
On her breast where frost’s the weather;
Here a sprig and there a spray—
Loveliness has gone its way.
There are those who had as lief
Be buried with remembered grief
As live a long long time with it
Stuck in the live heart it has split.
Asters here.—Her only care
Was breathing anything but air;
Her only wish—let’s lay them slanted,
So—a simple one, and granted.