O, Goldenrod, bright goldenrod!
It fringes all the wayside hedges,
And makes the forest mantle rich
With lovely tasseled edges.
It lights with sunshine of its own
Each dark, neglected dingle,
And links itself with memories of
The cheery, old-time ingle.
Despite the summer’s burning drought,
It blooms profuse and bright as ever,
And where spring fountains rippled forth
With laughter to the river,
It kisses now their parching lips
To woo their music mellow,
And wreaths our dying flowers with
An aureole of yellow.
It gaily lifts its nodding plumes
Above decay’s inceptive traces,
And hides beneath its cloth-of-gold
The season’s fading graces.
Bright goldenrod! ’tis autumn’s crown
And summer’s sunset glory—
Each blooming-time is new with joy
As Love’s old charming story.