Thy satin vesture richer is than looms 
Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings. 
Not dyes of old Tyre, not precious things 
Regathered from the long forgotten tombs 
Of buried empires, not the iris plumes 
That wave upon the tropic's myriad wings, 
Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings, 
Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms. 
For thou art nurtured from the treasure veins 
Of this fair land; thy golden rootlets sup 
Her sands of gold - of gold thy petals spun. 
Her golden glory, thou! on hills and plains 
Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup, 
Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.