THY satin vesture richer is than looms Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings! Not dyes of olden Tyre, not precious things Regathered from the long-forgotten tombs Of buried empires, not the iris plumes That wave upon the tropics' myriad wings, Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings, Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms. For thou art nurtured from the treasure-veins Of this fair land: thy golden rootlets sup Her sands of gold -- of gold thy petals spun. Her golden glory, thou! on hills and plains, Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH: FOR MY GRANDMOTHER by COUNTEE CULLEN O YOU WHOM I OFTEN AND SILENTLY COME by WALT WHITMAN SONG OF MYSELF by WALT WHITMAN BLOOD ON THE WHEEL by ALEXANDER ANDERSON HOARFROST by STELLA PFEIFFER BAISCH THE ROUNDHOUSE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |