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let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] GOLDENROD When the wayside tangles blaze In the low September sun, When the flowers of Summer days Droop and wither, one by one, Reaching up through bush and brier, Sumptuous brow and heart of fire, Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume, Brave with wealth of native bloom,-- Goldenrod! When the meadow, lately shorn, Parched and languid, swoons with pain, When her life-blood, night and morn, Shrinks in every throbbing vein, Round her fallen, tarnished urn Leaping watch-fires brighter burn; Royal arch o'er Autumn's gate, Bending low with lustrous weight,-- Goldenrod! In the pasture's rude embrace, All o'errun with tangled vines, Where the thistle claims its place, And the straggling hedge confines, Bearing still the sweet impress Of unfettered loveliness, In the field and by the wall, Binding, clasping, crowning all,-- Goldenrod! Nature lies disheveled pale, With her feverish lips apart,-- Day by day the pulses fail, Nearer to her bounding heart; Yet that slackened grasp doth hold Store of pure and genuine gold; Quick thou comest, strong and free, Type of all the wealth to be,-- Goldenrod! Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863- LESSONS FROM THE GORSE Mountain gorses, ever-golden, Cankered not the whole year long! Do ye teach us to be strong, Howsoever pricked and holden, Like your thorny blooms, and so Trodden on by rain and snow, Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as where ye grow? Mountain blossoms, shining blossoms, Do ye teach us to be glad When no summer can be had, Blooming in our inward bosoms? Ye whom God preserveth still, Set as lights upon a hill, Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty liveth still! Mountain gorses, do ye teach us From that academic chair Canopied with azure air, That the wisest word man reaches Is the humblest he can speak? Ye, who live on mountain peak, Yet live low along the ground, beside the grasses meek! Mountain gorses, since Linnaeus Knelt beside you on the sod, For your beauty thanking God,-- For your teaching, ye should see us Bowing in prostration new! Whence arisen,--if one or two Drops be on our cheeks--O world, they are not tears but dew. Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] THE VOICE OF THE
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