THE LAST FLOWER

O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun!

Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee?

This meadow is a barren thing to see,

For here the reapers’ toil is over and done.

Of all her many birds there is but one

Left to assail the last wild raspberry;

The buttercups and daisies withered be,

And yet thy reign hath only now begun.

O sign of power and sway imperial!

O sceptre thrust into the hands of Fall

By Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread!

O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas,

Even the trees have let their glory pass,

And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!