Never a flower so debonair,
And full of a gallant grace,
As the golden-rod that on ledge or sod
Seeks but a foothold's spare.
Asking not for the garden's bed,
Shelter or care at all,
Standing with pride by the highway side,
Or climbing the mountain wall.
Ever beside her own true knight
The dear little aster lifts
Her purple bloom, in light or gloom,
Clothing ravines and rifts
With a royal robe that is fair to see,
While she answers back the nod,
Queenly and bright, on vale and height,
Of her lover, the golden-rod.
Margaret E. Sangster.