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.