Tall Ambrosia

Among the signs of autumn I perceive The Roman wormwood (called by learned men Ambrosia elatior, food for gods,— For to impartial science the humblest weed Is as immortal once as the proudest flower—) Sprinkles its yellow dust over my shoes As I cross the now neglected garden. —We trample under foot the food of gods And spill their nectar in each dropp of dew— My honest shoes, fast friends that never stray Far from my couch, thus powdered, countryfied, Bearing many a mile the marks of their adventure, At the post-house disgrace the Gallic gloss Of those well dressed ones who no morning dew Nor Roman wormwood ever have been through, Who never walk but are transported rather— For what old crime of theirs I do not gather.