In fields that long for freshening rains,
The goldenrod, the flower you wore,
Leans out beside the lanes:
Leans softly, with the look of one
Who has a tender word to say;
Then, feeling breezes warm with sun,
Turns unconfessed away.
O’er lichened wall, o’er languid brook,
By her my spirit is caressed,
This golden girl, whom oft you took,