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The wild Asters and the Golden-rod,
In their beauty and their prime,
With the sunlight on their mingling leaves,
In the bright September time--


In copse, in glen, by the woodpaths green,
And in every lonely place,
The Asters bloom and the Golden-rod,
Like a smile on nature's face.


When the rustling corn is gathered in,
And the days are warm and bright,
When the orchard casts its mellow fruit
In the deep autumnal light;


When the maple tops and sumach leaves
Are flushed with a crimson stain,
The Asters still and the Golden-rod
Are fresh on meadow and plain.


When the shivering leaves drop sear and dry
To the cheerless earth to rest,
And even the blue fringed Gentian's blooms
Lie dead on its desolate breast;


That bleak, sad pause in the pleasant year,
When the harvest-fields are bare,
The Asters wild and the Golden-rod
In the sunshine cold are there.


The autumn wind and the autumn rain,
But they nod and bloom the while,
And when the wind and the rain are past
Look out with a quiet smile,


From copse and glen, and the wood-paths drear,
And the leaves, cold, damp and dun,
With a golden crest and star-bright eye,
To welcome a smiling sun.