The ironweed is purple now; the blackeyed-Susans nod;
And by its banks, weighed down with wet, blooms bright
     the goldenrod:
Blooms bright the goldenrod, my dear, and in the mist
     of morn
The gray hawk soars and screams and soars above the
     dripping corn:
And by the pool, cerulean cool, the milkweed bursts its pod,
As through the air the wild fanfare rings of the hunter's horn.

From "Happiness" by Madison Cawein

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