In the Morning by Willis Boyd Allen - HTML preview

GOLDEN-ROD.

O’er the dusty roadside bending

With its wondrous weight of gold,

Can it be the rod enchanted

Midas used in days of old?

Hush! perchance it is a princess

In the sunlight nodding there,

Spell-bound by the wicked fairy,—

Sleepy little Golden-Hair!

Nay, it is Belshazzar’s banquet,

Where the drowsy monarch sups

With his swarm of courtiers, drinking

From the sacred, golden cups.

See, I pluck his tiny kingdom—

Long ago it was decreed—

And divide it, dear, between us,

You the Persian, I the Mede.