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.