  When August sunset's yellow blaze Streams out o'er meadow, field and lawn, It seeks some shrine wherein its rays May linger till returning dawn, And touching gently with its sheen That graceful plumage of the sod, Its constellated gems of green Are changed to glorious Goldenrod. Its home is in the sterile soil Deserted by the rustic swain Because it yields not for his toil The recompense he would obtain. By wall and ledge, and rock, and mound, Where'er neglect and ruin reign In greatest beauty there 'tis found, To cheer and clothe the earth again. Down in the soul there dwells a thought That finds expression not in word, That counts display and promise naught Unless a voice divine is heard, That speaks to cheer the desolate, That yields a balm distilled from God; Whose type should be the flower of State— The sun-lit, heaven-born Goldenrod. |
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