Pluck not the wayside flower;
It is the traveler's dower.
~William Allingham
Goldenrod
One of the last big flower shows each year is courtesy of the Goldenrod. Throughout the world, 125 species of goldenrod are known; of these around 90 are found in North America.
Just about every insect with an interest in flowers may be found on goldenrod in the autumn. Bees harvest it's nectar in great quantities in the flower-starved autumn. In fact, goldenrods are considered one of the most important bee plants.
Brews of goldenrod have been popular throughout time. In Europe, the leaves were sometimes made into what was called Blue Mountain Wine. Teas have been made from many of the more aromatic species, many as medicinal brews. In the nineteenth century many of these concoctions were exported to China where they were much admired and commanded high prices.
The flowers of various species of goldenrod have been used to make yellow dye for cloth. Thomas Edison even experimented with it as a source for rubber! With it's many uses, not surprisingly two states-- Kentucky and Nebraska-- have named it their state flower.
Goldenrod are commonly blamed for allergies due to the fact that large swaths of them can be found growing amongst the real culprit--Ragweed.
The Goldenrod make a pleasant scene with it's varied bronzes, russets, oranges and purples it displays which colors the fall praries and meadows. It is a sure sign that the first frosts of the cooler seasons are not long away.
There is a calm and solemn air
Along the road, by garden fair,
By rushing stream, and ev'rywhere
The sear and yellow leaf's aglow.
The foliage is growing old;
All through the verdure gleams the gold;
The rose is turning into mold;
But golden rod stands ev'rywhere.
O'er the lea and across the mead,
And far away where the cattle feed,
There blows the yellow crested reed,
The autumnal queen of flowers.
Its golden crown along the way,
Sways back and forth, and seems to say,
'I am fair Flora's Queen today,
And the wind's my messenger boy.
'And further on the wind's low wail
Proclaims my reign along the dale,
Till the tired harvester drops his flail
And hails me queen of the flowers.'
~Samuel Alfred Beadle
Recent Comments