Poems (Proctor)/Goldenrod and Asters
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!
On the plains and the upland pastures Such regal splendor fallsWhen 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!
On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay, And England's lanes and fallowsAre 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!