The Golden Rod
What dazzling shape is this that seems to rise
At the command
Of some magician, till it glorifies
The barren sand?
A stately canopy for some proud elve!
And that rich sheen
The grand creation of the gnomes that delve
Grotesque, unseen,
In caverns dim. There while the forges ring
To blow on blow
Those humble artisans are burnishing
That wondrous glow!
How gorgeously the molten yellow gleams
As they combine
The sand’s bright ore with sunlight’s minted beams
In rare design.
Until the wealth that jade green leaves disguise
And buds enfold!
Wells upward with resplendent ecstasies
In jets of gold!
Fountains that o’er the sterile desert play
Erect and tall
With pendent droplets from their golden spray
That never fall.
Oases of enchantment where the bees
And beetles come,
To mingle with the murmur of the seas
Their drowsy hum.
Such splendor glitters in each regal nod
Of gilded bloom
We pause in doubt; is this the golden rod,
Or seraph’s plume?
A scepter, or perchance a magic wand
For elfin kings?
Our fancy pictures in each jewelled frond
Fantastic things.
And still our wonder grows, and a vague fear
Of regions banned
Steals o’er us—lest our footsteps draw too near
To fairyland!