When I first met her at the home of Mrs. Storrs, I thought her one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen—­of the Andalusian type—­dark hair and lustrous starry eyes, beautiful features, perfect teeth, a slender, willowy figure, and a voice so musical that it would lure a bird from the bough.  She had a way all her own of “telling” you a poem.  She was perfectly natural about it, a recitative semi-tone yet full of expression and dramatic breadth, at times almost a chant.  With those dark and glowing eyes looking into mine, I have listened until I forgot everything about me, and was simply spellbound.  Mr. Fields described Tennyson’s reciting his own poems in much the same way.  Whittier once said to a friend, “I consider Miss Proctor one of the best woman poets of the day,” and then added, “But why do I say one of the best; why not the best?”

Miss Proctor has always been glad to assist any plan of mine, and wrote a poem especially for my Christmas book, Purple and Gold.  Mr. Osgood, the publisher, when I showed him the poem, said, “But how do I know that the public will care for your weeds?” (referring to the asters and goldenrod).  He said later:  “The instant popularity and large sale of that booklet attested the happiness of Miss Sanborn’s selection, and the kind contributions from her friends.”  Miss Proctor’s contribution was the first poem in the book and I venture to publish it as it has never been in print since the first sale.  My friend’s face is still beautiful, her mind is as active as when we first met, her voice has lost none of its charm, and she is the same dear friend as of yore.

GOLDENROD AND ASTERS

The goldenrod, the goldenrod,
That glows in sun or rain,
Waving its plumes on every bank
From the mountain slope to the main,—­
Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine,
Nor buttercups, gems of summer,
Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white,
Can rival this latest comer!

On the plains and the upland pastures
Such regal splendour falls
When forth, from myriad branches green,
Its gold the south wind calls,—­
That the tale seems true the red man’s god
Lavished its bloom to say,
“Though days grow brief and suns grow cold,
My love is the same for aye.”

And, darker than April violets
Or pallid as wind-flowers grow,
Under its shades from hill to meadow
Great beds of asters blow.—­
Oh plots of purple o’erhung with gold
That need nor walls nor wardens,
Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen,
Her Babylonian gardens!

On Scotia’s moors the gorse is gay,
And England’s lanes and fallows
Are decked with broom whose winsome grace
The hovering linnet hallows;
But the robin sings from his maple bow,
“Ah, linnet, lightly won,
Your bloom to my blaze of wayside gold
Is the wan moon to the sun!”

And were I to be a bride at morn,
Ere the chimes rang out I’d say,
“Not roses red, but goldenrod
Strew in my path today! 
And let it brighten the dusky aisle,
And flame on the altar-stair,
Till the glory and light of the fields shall flood
The solemn dimness there.”