(The Golden Rod)

It grows 'mid tangled underwood, All brilliant in the fields, And o'er our hearts a subtile spell Its golden beauty wields.

Perchance some exile's foot hath pressed The road with weary tread, When lo! from out the wayside growth It rears its bonny head.

Not with the first faint tints of Spring Are its bright blossoms seen; But, radiant in its garb, and decked With Autumn's fruitful sheen.

Then hail! bright floweret of our choice-- With multiform design; Though many in thy blossom's wealth, Still one on parent vine!