Soft the golden sunshine crept through the autumn trees and slept
On her shining head bowed meekly coming from the house of God,
And along the woodland road, wending to her new abode,
Where the April wind had sowed, laughed the nodding goldenrod.

Thus my grandsire led his bride, lily-robed and gentian-eyed,
Past the brook that sang unceasing her new name in silver tone,
Underneath the maple grove where the leaves such carpet wove,
As their jealous blushes strove to surpass the maiden's own,

To a cottage, woodbine-thatched, whose rude door his hand unlatched,
While above the drooping eyelids with their dreamy smile below,
Close he bent his comely head,—so the gossip squirrels said,
Peeping through the oak-leaves red, fifty happy years ago.

For their love white plumage lent to the days of their content,
And so swift the singing seasons flew before their wedded feet,
That themselves might scarcely know where the sun-beams met the snow,
And the blossoms ceased to blow in the shadow of the wheat.

Thus their youth ran into age, and albeit their pilgrimage
Knew full many a thorn-set passage where they fainted as they trod,
When the brooding sunset light flooded every vale and height,
All the way seemed golden bright in the constant smile of God.

And my grandsire, looking back o'er the long, illumined track,
Counting fifty years like jewels in his marriage diadem,
Stooped anew to kiss the brows of his worn and withered spouse,
Calling all his scattered house to return and feast with them.

Straight we flocked from east and west back to the forsaken nest,
Some with storm-beat, broken plumage; some with grace of dovelike ways;
Eagle hearts and pinions strong; twilight voices sweet of song,
And the twittering broods that throng on the leafy summer sprays.

From the north and south we came, all the children of his name,
Blown like autumn leaves together homeward to the parent tree,
And he blessed us one and each in his quaint, unlettered speech,
Praying all our feet might reach mansions by the crystal sea.

Then with smiles and tender tears, honoring the garnered years,
We in turn our costly tokens did with loving hands unfold,
But the old man turned him where little faces pressed his chair,
For the gifts he counted fair were those clustering heads of gold.

Yet with pitying eyes and dim looked the wedding-guests on him,
Stepping softly like sojourners in a consecrated place,
For the weary, white-haired bride lay in pain till eventide,
And before the dawn she died, smiling in her husband's face.

Soft once more the sunshine crept through the autumn trees and slept
On her faded hands crossed meekly borne from out the house of God,
While beside the woodland road wending to her last abode,
Where the April wind had sowed, wept the dewy goldenrod.