Poems (Sharpless)/The Golden Rod
For works with similar titles, see The Golden Rod.
THE GOLDEN ROD
What happy thought is thine, oh Golden Rod? What merry secret worth our knowing,That thou art shaking thus thy plumes abroad,Brightening and cheering all the wayside road, While the strong west wind is blowing?
Far, far above the tallest swaying trees, In the blue skies, white clouds go sailingLike ships of pearl across deep azure seas;Is it some vision that hast caught from these O'er future cold and storm prevailing?
The last belated blossoms shuddering feel The grasp of autumn damp and chilly;The tangled yellow grasses scarce revealWhere the shrunk frightened streamlets steal, No longer bubbling, fond and silly.
But thou with thy cicada small and shrill, A strong inspiring song art singing;Of sweet content, of sturdy will;—And though the frost may blight and chill, The sun a present joy is bringing.
And in unconscious strength, serene With radiant pomp, thy court art keeping,Clothed in thy robe of vivid green;Crowned as was ne'er earth's richest queen With plumes unstained by blood or weeping.
Thy bold and joyous flower sure must be Our autumn's darling and her treasure;Teaching to those with eyes to seeWhat fortitude, what virtue free, What innocent, unfailing pleasure,
May blossom amid life's late hours, When vanished are youth's scenes of beauty,For him who, like these wayside flowers,Fulfils his part with all his powers, Trusts in his God, and minds his duty.