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THE SONG OF THE CHRYSANTHEMUM.
AT last 1 have come to my throne.
No more, despised and unknown,
In gardens forlorn
My blossoms are born;
No more in some corner obscure
Do I drearily, sadly endure
The withering blight
Of neglect and of slight;
Oh, long have I waited and late,
For this fair and slow-coming fate,
Which the years have foretold
As they sighingly rolled.
Oh, long have I waited and lone;
But at last, on my blossomy throne,
