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!