Indian Summer

Indian Summer

There is a time, just when the frost

Prepares to pave old Winter's way,

When Autumn, in a reverie lost,

The mellow daytime dreams away.

When Summer comes, in musing mind,

To gaze once more on hill and dell,

To mark how many sheaves they bind,

And see if all are ripened well.

With balmy breath she whispers low;

The dying flowers look up, and give

Their sweetest incense ere they go,

For her who made their beauties live.

She enters neath the woodland's shade,

Her zephyrs lift the lingering sheaf,

And bear it gently where are laid

The loved and lost ones of its grief.

At last old Autumn, rising, takes

Again his sceptre and his throne,

With boisterous hand the tree he shakes,

Intent on gathering all his own.

Sweet Summer, sighing, flies the plain,

And waiting Winter, gaunt and grim,

Sees miser Autumn hoard his grain,

And smiles o think it's all for him.

Unattributed

1:18, p. 1

11.19.1859