April Airs: A Book of New England Lyrics

by Bliss Carman


 

THE GHOST-YARD OF THE GOLDENROD


 

WHEN the first silent frost has trod
The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,

And laid the blight of his cold hand
Upon the warm autumnal land,

And all things wait the subtle change

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That men call death, is it not strange

That I—without a care or need,
Who only am an idle weed—

Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold,
The coming of the final cold!

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