They lift their lovely heads and gaze,
wide-eyed and laughing, at the sun,
and all about my garden ways
they heap on grey autumnal days
their golden benison.
Not lonely, as the lily sways,
nor fragrant, like the leafy thyme,
but rising in a merry blaze
of yellow, like a bright-winged phrase
from some old lover's rhyme.
O sunflowers, ere cold winds undo
your beauty, and your flags are furled,
teach me the magic Midas knew,
that I may touch all grey things too
and make a golden world.