To the Goldenrod

Thou tiny spark amid the green
That bearest still the sunlight's sheen,
That, glowing near the pasture rail,
Gives all the field a golden veil.

Thou comest not when daffodils
Blow lightly over Bluegrass hills,
Or honeysuckle, climbing high,
Reveals a longing for the sky.

Thou waitest till September's chill
Has touched the valley and the hil,
Till trees forsake their summer hue
And autumn paints the world anew.

Then doth thy lamp of lucent flame
Illumine earth from where thou came,
Gold-gold-as if thy tiny heart
Contained of every sun a part.

I would that thus beside life's road
Some traveller, bent beneath his load,
Might glimpse, like thine own taper lit,
My life to brighten earth a bit.

~ Alice Kennelly Roberts