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To the Golden Rod
A lissome maid with towseled hair
As soft as e'er a squirrel's vair,
With ne'er a care,
All silky fair,
She sways to ev'ry wooing air.
She flaunts her golden gown with grace
And laughs in sturdy Autumn's face,
A ray of sunshine in the race
That ends with hoary winter's pace -
Within my heart O, maiden fair,
Old Winter's frown can ne'er efface
Thy wayward grace so debonair
Thou princess of a nomad race.
Text added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Notes about what "text verified" means can be found here.
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