CHRYSANTHEMUMS

When autumn darkens the sleep of tombs,
Under the shelter of the cypresses, whose branches groan,
The blurred chrysanthemums, on the mounds, bloom
To pour their beauty into our fields of rest.
With a strange perfume, stranger cradles,
The chrysanthemums are the flower of sacrifices;
Life is enclosed for a day in their chalices;
And, for being fugitive, they are even more beautiful!
Although the whole rainbow displays its riches
In their infinite range, they have the weary aspect
Of those who are going to die: everything, in them, is sadness.
As soon as the first cold on its stem has passed,
The autumn flower, shivering, scatters its charms,
And its weary petals fall like tears!

JEHAN YPSILON.