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JEWEL-WEED
THOU lonely, dew-wet mountain road,
Traversed by toiling feet each day,
What rare enchantment maketh thee
Appear so gay?
Thy sentinels, on either hand
Rise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir,
O'er the familiar shrubs that greet
The wayfarer;
But here's a magic cometh new—
A joy to gladden thee, indeed:
This passionate out-flowering of
The jewel-weed,
That now, when days are growing drear,
As Summer dreams that she is old,
Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells
Of mottled gold!
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