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
And by the pool, cerulean cool, the milkweed bursts its pod,
As through the air the wild fanfare rings of the hunter's horn.