The Golden-Rod
O Rod of gold!
O swaying sceptre of the year—
Now frost and cold
Show Winter near,
And shivering leaves grow brown and sere.
The bleak hillside,
And marshy waste of yellow reeds,
And meadows wide
Where frosted weeds
Shake on the damp wind light-winged seeds,
Are decked with thee,—
The lingering Summer’s latest grace,
And sovereignty.
Each wind-swept space
Waves thy red gold in Winter’s face—
He strives each star,
In stormy pride to lay full low;
But when thy bar
Resists his blow,
Will crown thee with a puff of snow!
Margaret Deland