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Goldenrod Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod by Bliss Carman
  2. Golden-Rod by Mary B. Lee
  3. Goldenrod by Elaine Goodale Eastman
  4. Golden-Rod by Eliza Ostranden Jewell
  5. The Golden-Rod by Albert Ulysses Lesher
  6. The Golden-Rod by Lucy A. Fisher
  7. September by Helen Hunt Jackson

  1. The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod

    by Bliss Carman

    When the first silent frost has trod
    The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,

    And laid the blight of his cold hand
    Upon the warm autumnal land,

    And all things wait the subtle change
    That men call death, is it not strange

    That I —without a care or need,
    Who only am an idle weed —

    Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,
    The coming of the final cold!

  2. Golden-Rod

    by Mary B. Lee

    Pearl-pale from some dim Paradise
    She wanders speechless, sibylline,
    By ghostly coastlines half unseen—
    Dim shores, wan seas, and grey, pale skies.
    Tiptoe, and hushed with mysteries
    Unwhisperable—aloof of mien,
    Pearl-pale from some dim Paradise
    She wanders, speechless, sibylline.

    Grey Druidess of the dreaming eyes,
    You give no gold for Summer's green,
    Nor deck the trees in passing sheen
    Of gilt and carmined heraldries;
    Pearl-pale from some dim Paradise
    You wander speechless, sibylline!

  3. Goldenrod

    by Elaine Goodale Eastman

    When the wayside tangles blaze
    In the low September sun,
    When the flowers of Summer days
    Droop and wither, one by one,
    Reaching up through bush and brier,
    Sumptuous brow and heart of fire,
    Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume,
    Brave with wealth of native bloom,—

    When the meadow, lately shorn,
    Parched and languid, swoons with pain,
    When her life-blood, night and morn,
    Shrinks in every throbbing vein,
    Round her fallen, tarnished urn
    Leaping watch-fires brighter burn;
    Royal arch o'er Autumn's gate,
    Bending low with lustrous weight,—

    In the pasture's rude embrace,
    All o'errun with tangled vines,
    Where the thistle claims its place,
    And the straggling hedge confines,
    Bearing still the sweet impress
    Of unfettered loveliness,
    In the field and by the wall,
    Binding, clasping, crowning all,—

    Nature lies disheveled pale,
    With her feverish lips apart,—
    Day by day the pulses fail,
    Nearer to her bounding heart;
    Yet that slackened grasp doth hold
    Store of pure and genuine gold;
    Quick thou comest, strong and free,
    Type of all the wealth to be,—

  4. Golden-Rod

    by Eliza Ostranden Jewell

    She has come again, the wild-flower's queen,
    With her hair of gold, and her gown of green,
    Frilled to the neck, slender, graceful and tall,
    Waving and nodding and smiling on all-
    She's dropping her gold along the highway
    For peasant and prince the long summer day,
    And they gather a yellow breast-knot to wear,
    The maiden dark-eyed, and the one so fair.

    Over the bare knoll her gay plumes unfold,
    Each sandy stretch is strewed with her gold-
    As some vision of youth-a holy boon-
    Comes to the heart in its bleak afternoon.
    O dear golden flower, thy glad, honest face
    And thy lissome form are a study of grace,
    And the Psalmist's words are repeated in thee,
    For "thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

  5. Golden-Rod

    by Albert Ulysses Lesher

    From Maine to California,
    From Alleghanies' crest,
    To where the Rocky Mountains
    Stand guardians of the west;
    From fair Dakota's fountains
    To tropic Mexic wave—
    From where the proud Potomac
    Flows by our chieftain's grave—
    Thou growest beauteous flower,
    Sown by the hand of God;
    Thou symbol of our power,
    Thou blessed golden-rod.

    When soft blow summer zephyrs,
    When fall the autumn leaves,
    Or when the wind of winter
    Through lordly forests grieves—
    Thou liftest still thy golden crest
    Above the winter's snow
    And heedest not November winds,
    However fierce they blow.
    Oh, lovely little flower,
    Uplifting from the sod—
    Thou symbol of our power—
    Thou blessed golden-rod.

    Like thee—the golden-crested,
    Our mighty land has grown;
    Like thee, the tempest breasted,
    Like thee, her summer's known;
    But God—the Great All Father—
    Who marks the sparrow's fall,
    Has raised both plant and nation,
    Has watched and prospered all.
    'Mid storm, 'mid hail, 'neath sunshine.
    Still wave thy golden crest,
    Still live the symbol flower—
    The Shamrock of the West.

    Though thrones and crowns may crumble,
    And kingdoms rise and fall,
    Fair western land, the last and best,
    Thou shalt survive them all;
    For thee, the Great Jehovah,
    Hath lifted from the sod,
    And given thee, with many gifts,
    The blessed golden-rod—
    The golden-rod of empire,
    Which shall endure alway,
    Until the sun to darkness turns
    And earth shall pass away.

  6. Golden-Rod

    by Lucy A. Fisher

    O golden-rod! thou beauty!
    What brought thee where purple flowers weep?
    Didst an angel speak to thee
    To whisper of thy love to me?

    Thou graceful flower of my choice—
    Glowing untired, so fine, so meek,
    Thou knowest that thou hast
    An admirer thou dost seek.

    Thy fame so oft in the poet's song,
    O, tell me what makes thee great?
    I'll wait very patient and long
    To learn of the rod of the great.

    I whisper to thee of a Father—
    Who holdeth a mighty rod;
    He strikes and shatters my jewels
    Falling under the sod.

  7. September

    by Helen Hunt Jackson

    The golden-rod is yellow;
    The corn is turning brown;
    The trees in apple orchards
    With fruit are bending down.

    The gentian’s bluest fringes
    Are curling in the sun;
    In dusty pods the milkweed
    Its hidden silk has spun.

    The sedges flaunt their harvest,
    In every meadow nook;
    And asters by the brook-side
    Make asters in the brook.

    From dewy lanes at morning
    The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
    At noon the roads all flutter
    With yellow butterflies.

    By all these lovely tokens
    September days are here,
    With summer’s best of weather,
    And autumn’s best of cheer.

    But none of all this beauty
    Which floods the earth and air
    Is unto me the secret
    Which makes September fair.

    ‘T is a thing which I remember;
    To name it thrills me yet:
    One day of one September
    I never can forget.

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