CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT.
They lift their faces to the light, And aye they are a gallant band; The queen of all is snowy white— A stately thing, and tall and grand.
See, close beside, in yellow drest, Is the prince consort of the hour; A bit of God's own sunshine prest Into a glorious golden flower!
And mark the courtiers' noble grace— Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine— Their satin doublets slashed with lace, Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.
Each maid-in-waiting is most fair— Note well the graces she unfurls— The winds have tossed her fluffy hair, And left it in a thousand curls.
And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one, Arrayed in palest lavender, Ah! few there are, when all is done, In beauty can compare with her.
The pink—I've seen at eventide A something very like to this, A cloud adrift upon the sky, All rosy from the sun's last kiss.
Without the court, the chill and gloom Of autumn twilight o'er the land; Within, the grandeur and the bloom Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.