C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Wood-Wax

LAUGHING, midst its yellow blooms,

At the fire that it consumes,

Springs the wood-wax every year;

It has naught from man to fear.

From the turnpike’s grassy side,

See it flourish far and wide,

On the steep and rocky hills:

Naught the wood-wax hurts or kills.

Glorious sight in summer-time

’Tis, to see it in its prime,

With its spikes of flowers untold,

Covering all the hills with gold!

Though a plant of stranger race,

It with us has found a place;

Vain the farmer’s art or toil

That would drive it from the soil.

Vain in winter is the fire

Which he kindles in his ire;

Still it laughs, amidst its blooms,

At the flame that it consumes.