Let us go forth and gather golden-rod! O love, my love, see how upon the hills, Where still the warm air palpitates and thrills, And earth lies breathless in the smile of God, Like plumes of serried hosts its tassels nod! All the green vales its golden glory fills; By lonely waysides and by mountain rills Its yellow banners flaunt above the sod. Perhaps the apple-blossoms were more fair; Perhaps, dear heart, the roses were more sweet, June’s dewy roses, with their buds half blown; Yet what care we, while tremulous and rare This golden sunshine falleth at our feet And song lives on, though summer birds have flown? August, 1884.

Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart! Although no more for thee in earthly bowers Shall bloom the earlier or the later flowers; Although to-day ’tis springtime where thou art, While I, with Autumn, wander far apart, Yet, in the name of that long love of ours, Tested by years and tried by sun and showers, Let the words stand as they were writ, dear heart!