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by Mary B. Lee

The Golden-Rod, that bends and sways
Its yellow plumes by dusty ways,
In bright autumnal beauty drest,
A floral gem, it stands confessed.

When in the cool September days,
The hills are wrapt in purple haze,
I hail with joy the Golden-Rod,
Upspringing from the moist brown sod.

How oft in pensive mood I've trod,
Sweet woodland paths for Golden-Rod,
And proudly borne the fragrant load,
Along the dusty homeward road.

I noted well the landscape rare,
The whir of insects in the air
The silent birds that flitted by,
The purple hills, the sunset sky.

Along the roadside, here and there,
The stubble fields lay brown and bare
And bending low above the sod
Were dying plumes of Golden-Rod.

And pausing oft, I gazed around,
While bright leaves fluttered to the ground
Till in my heart each picture burned,
Then home my lagging footsteps turned.

Now silver threads adorn my brow,
And years there are 'twixt then and now,
Still flowery chains fond memory weaves,
When 'neath my feet are rustling leaves.

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