• Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom,
    The ancient poet sung it,
    And dear it is on summer days
    To lie at rest among it.
    I know the realms where people say
    The flowers have not their fellow;
    I know where they shine out like suns,
    The crimson and the yellow.
    I know where ladies live enchained
    In luxury's silken fetters,
    And flowers as bright as glittering gems
    Are used for written letters.
    But ne'er was flower so fair as this,
    In modern days or olden;
    It groweth on its nodding stem
    Like to a garland golden.

    Mary Botham Howitt, “The Broom Flower”