GOLDENROD. 



In the pasture s rude embrace, 



All o errun with tangled vines, 

 Where the thistle claims its place, 



And the straggling hedge confines, 

 Bearing still the sweet impress 

 Of unfettered loveliness, 

 In the field and by the wall, 

 Binding, clasping, crowning all, 

 Goldenrod! 



Nature lies disheveled, pale, 



With her feverish lips apart, 

 Day by day the pulses fail, 



Nearer to her bounding heart; 

 Yet that slackened grasp doth hold 

 Store of pure and genuine gold ; 

 Quick thou comest, strong and free, 

 Type of all the wealth to be, 

 Goldenrod ! 



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