Page:Poems Proctor.djvu/180

On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay,
 And England's lanes and fallows
Are decked with broom whose winsome grace
 The hovering linnet hallows;
But the robin sings from his maple bough,
 "Ah, linnet, lightly won,
Your bloom to my blaze of wayside gold
 Is the wan moon to the sun!"

And were I to be a bride at morn,
 Ere the chimes rang out I'd say,
"Not roses red, but goldenrod
 Strew in my path to-day!
And let it brighten the dusky aisle,
 And flame on the altar-stair,
Till the glory and light of the fields shall flood
 The solemn dimness there;"

And should I sleep in my shroud at eve,
 Not lilies pale and cold,
But the purple asters of the wood
 Within my hand I°d hold;—
For goldenrod is the flower of love
 That time and change defies;
And asters gleam through the autumn air
 With the hues of Paradise!