GOLDENROD AND ASTERS.
The goldenrod, the goldenrod
That glows in sun or rain,
Wayving its plumes on every bank
From the mountain slope to the main,—
Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine,
Nor buttercups, gems of summer,
Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white,
Can rival this latest comer!
That glows in sun or rain,
Wayving its plumes on every bank
From the mountain slope to the main,—
Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine,
Nor buttercups, gems of summer,
Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white,
Can rival this latest comer!
On the plains and the upland pastures
Such regal splendor falls
When forth, from myriad branches green,
Its gold the south wind calls,—
That the tale seems true the Red man's god
Lavished its bloom to say,
"Though days grow brief and suns grow cold,
My love is the same for aye."
Such regal splendor falls
When forth, from myriad branches green,
Its gold the south wind calls,—
That the tale seems true the Red man's god
Lavished its bloom to say,
"Though days grow brief and suns grow cold,
My love is the same for aye."
And, darker than April violets
Or pallid as wind-flowers grow,
Under its shadow from hill to meadow
Great beds of asters blow;—
O plots of purple o'erhung with gold
That need nor walls nor wardens,
Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen,
Her Babylonian gardens!
Or pallid as wind-flowers grow,
Under its shadow from hill to meadow
Great beds of asters blow;—
O plots of purple o'erhung with gold
That need nor walls nor wardens,
Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen,
Her Babylonian gardens!
