THE GOLDEN-ROD
When autumn reddens the hills,
And lights up the secret wood,
Sings in the babbling rills,
And broods in a hazy mood,—
And lights up the secret wood,
Sings in the babbling rills,
And broods in a hazy mood,—
The golden-rod waits in the mead,
Her torch illuming the way
Where the mallows, going to seed,
Lose their bloom day by day.
Her torch illuming the way
Where the mallows, going to seed,
Lose their bloom day by day.
o, golden flower of the year,
Where do you gather your light?
What rustling winds do you hear,
Telling the secret in flight?
Where do you gather your light?
What rustling winds do you hear,
Telling the secret in flight?
From the sunshine that we have missed
Was woven a gown for you,
And the air was the warp, I wist,
From which your beauty grew.
Was woven a gown for you,
And the air was the warp, I wist,
From which your beauty grew.
What wondrous power do you guess,
Could fashion so fair a rod,
Wreathed with such loveliness,
In the bountiful thought of God?
Could fashion so fair a rod,
Wreathed with such loveliness,
In the bountiful thought of God?