As nature lifts her gates from week to week,
New beauties rise God’s wondrous power to speak;
And now, clad in her glory as of old,
The Goldenrod uplifts her crowns of gold.
John Wesley Waite.
BALLADE.
I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
I do not think the world a field could show
With herbs of perfume so surpassing rare;