Classic Poem

When the wayside tangles blaze
— In the low September sun,
When the flowers of Summer days
— Droop and wither, one by one,
Reaching up through bush and brier,
Sumptuous brow and heart of fire,
Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume,
Brave with wealth of native bloom, —
Goldenrod!

When the meadow, lately shorn,
— Parched and languid, swoons with pain,
When her life-blood, night and morn.
— Shrinks in every throbbing vein,
Round her fallen, tarnished urn
Leaping watch-fires brighter burn;
Royal arch o'er Autumn's gate,
Bending low with lustrous weight, —
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, —