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!