Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. I know the realms where people say The flowers have not their fellow; I know where they shine out like suns, The crimson and the yellow. I know where ladies live enchained In luxury’s silken fetters, And flowers as bright as glittering gems Are used for written letters. But ne’er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden; It groweth on its nodding stem Like to a garland golden.
