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I lie amid the Goldenrod, I love to see it lean and nod; I love to feel the grassy sod Whose kindly breast will hold me last, Whose patient arms will fold me fast! Fold me from sunshine and from song, Fold me from sorrow and from wrong: Through gleaming gates of Goldenrod I'll pass into the rest of God.
Mary Clemmer, Goldenrod, last stanza. | ||
