Thy subtle charm is strangely given, My fancy will not let thee be, , Then poise not thus 'twixt earth and heaven, O white anemone! - Elaine Goodale Eastman

Pure and perfect, sweet arbutus
Twines her rosy-tinted wreath.

With careless joy we thread the woodland ways
And reach her broad domain.
Thro' sense of strength and beauty, free as air.
We feel our savage kin, And thus alone with conscious meaning wear
The Indian's moccasin!

Nature lies disheveled, pale, With her feverish lips apart,—
Day by day the pulses fail, Nearer to her bounding heart;
Yet that slackened grasp doth hold
Store of pure and genuine gold;
Quick thou comest, strong and free,
Type of all the wealth to be,— Goldenrod!