The Golden Rod Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

There is a calm and solemn air
Along the road, by garden fair,
By rushing stream, and ev'rywhere
The sear and yellow leaf's aglow.


The foliage is growing old;
All through the verdure gleams the gold;
The rose is turning into mold;
But golden rod stands ev'rywhere.


O'er the lea and across the mead,
And far away where the cattle feed,
There blows the yellow crested reed,
The autumnal queen of flowers.


Its golden crown along the way,
Sways back and forth, and seems to say,
'I am fair Flora's Queen today,
And the wind's my messenger boy.


'And further on the wind's low wail
Proclaims my reign along the dale,
Till the tired harvester drops his flail
And hails me queen of the flowers.'