No matter how obscure the lonely place
Where meadow flower lifts its tender face,
It sheds a perfume just as pure and sweet
As if it grew where gaudy footsteps pace.
Goldenrod
The Autumn sunbeams come in rifts of gold
Across the fields and by the lapping sea;
And as I pass, the tufted Goldenrod
Bows royally in silence unto me.
Though heralder of Winter's coming stay,
And soft reminder of the Summer dead,
No arrogance of manner marks thy day,
Oh, Goldenrod. And on thy crimson head
The crown of fulness, of completeness rests,
The sunshine of an hundred Summer days;
And garnered love that we have won and lost
Thy silence keeps. And all the burnished ways
Of woodland vale and sedgy-covered fields
Are gladdened by thy presence, for the sod
Sends up its dearest offering of the year
In thy rich colors, pensive Goldenrod.
