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!