Explore "The Ghost-yard of the Goldenrod" by Bliss Carman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When the first silent frost has trod / The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,
And laid the blight of his cold hand / Upon the warm autumnal land,
And all things wait the subtle change / That men call death, is it not strange
That I -- without a care or need, / Who only am an idle weed --
Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold, / The coming of the final cold!