Why are you so late, dahlia?

Why are you so late, dahlia?

The story of roses has already been told,

and sated with honey, the bee

has already chosen a bed in which to slumber.

Are these nights not too cold for you?

How do you survive in these times?

If I now brought you the Spring,

you fiery yellow dreamer,

if I moistened you with May dew

and watered you with June light...

but then you would not be the last,

and you would not be proud of your uniqueness.

How then, dreamer, do I entice you in vain?

Reach me your sisterly hand,

for in this life I have not known May days,

just as you have not known Spring;

and, late like you, fiery yellow one,

love stole into my heart.

But whether it is late or early, it is nonetheless

both a delight and an agony.