The Golden Rod by Frank Dempster Sherman
Spring is the morning of the year
The autumn is the evening clear,
That comes before the winter's night.
And in the evening, everywhere
Along the roadside, up and down,
I see the golden torches flare
Like lighted street-lamps in the town.
I think the butterfly and the bee,
From distant meadows coming back,
Are quite contented when they see
These lamps along the homeward track.
But those who stay too late get lost;
For when the darkness falls about,
Down every lighted street the Frost
Will go and put the torches out!






