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Bravely my sweet flower resists
Heat of August, autumn cold;
And though she has amethysts
For her dower, and some gold,
Never roadside beggar passed her
Without nod from purple aster.


Dear plebeian, but for thee
And thy lover, golden-rod,
Lonesomer the road would be
Which the country folk must plod;
And each little maid and master
Would regret thee, purple aster!


When November winds blow chill,
And the fields are brown and sear,
You will find her, cheerful still,
With her lover standing near,
While old Winter fast and faster
Comes to claim brave purple aster.