GOLDENROD. 



WHEN the wayside tangles blaze 



In the low September sun, 

 When the flowers of Summer days 



Droop and wither, one by one, 

 Reaching up through bush and brier, 

 Sumptuous brow and heart of fire, 

 Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume, 

 Brave with wealth of native bloom, 

 Goldenrod ! 



When the meadow, lately shorn, 



Parched and languid, swoons with pain 

 When her life-blood, night and morn, 



Shrinks in every throbbing vein, 

 Round her fallen, tarnished urn 

 Leaping watch-fires brighter burn ; 

 Royal arch o er Autumn s gate, 

 Bending low with lustrous weight, 



Goldenrod ! 



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