Anthology of Massachusetts Poets

<h2><SPAN name="chap55"></SPAN>FRIMAIRE</h2> <p class="poem"> Dearest, we are like two flowers<br/> Blooming in the garden,<br/> A purple aster flower and a red one<br/> Standing alone in a withered desolation.<br/> <br/> The garden plants are shattered and seeded,<br/> One brittle leaf scrapes against another,<br/> Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals.<br/> Now only you and I nodding together.<br/> <br/> Many were with us; they have all faded.<br/> Only we are purple and crimson,<br/> Only we in the dew-clear mornings,<br/> Smarten into color as the sun rises.<br/> <br/> When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight,<br/> And later when my cold roots tighten,<br/> I am anxious for morning,<br/> I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.<br/> <br/> You or I&mdash;and I am a coward.<br/> Surely frost should take the crimson.<br/> Purple is a finer color,<br/> Very splendid in isolation.<br/> <br/> So we nod above the broken<br/> Stems of flowers almost rotted.<br/> Many mornings there cannot be now<br/> For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you!<br/></p> <p class="left"> AMY LOWELL</p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />