Goldenrod Poems

Table of Contents

1. The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod

   by Bliss Carman

   
   

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   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

   
   

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   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

   
   

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   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,—
   Goldenrod!
   

   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,—
   Goldenrod!
   

   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,—
   Goldenrod!
   

   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,—
   Goldenrod!
   

4. Golden-Rod

   by Eliza Ostranden Jewell

   
   

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   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

   
   

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   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

   
   

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   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

   
   

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   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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