INDIAN SUMMER
A WHIP of mist across the silver dawn,
A At eventide a purple haze
Shot full of glinting fire;
And on the everlasting hills,
Where runs the road of Heart's Desire,
The Bob-white's call of love
Through vagrant ways.
A At eventide a purple haze
Shot full of glinting fire;
And on the everlasting hills,
Where runs the road of Heart's Desire,
The Bob-white's call of love
Through vagrant ways.
Stirred by the wind the tawny sedge grass swings
In waves that never touch a shore
Nor break in foam;
And o'er their windy wastes, on wings of flame,
The scarlet tanager flits home—
A voiceless specter of the spring
And its sweet lore.
In waves that never touch a shore
Nor break in foam;
And o'er their windy wastes, on wings of flame,
The scarlet tanager flits home—
A voiceless specter of the spring
And its sweet lore.
The daisies of St. Michael crest the hedge
Where droops the faded goldenrod—
A miser's rifled dream;
And in the heart that erst was reft of hope
A brooding peace that reigns supreme,
And in the soul a sense
Of kinship unto God.
Where droops the faded goldenrod—
A miser's rifled dream;
And in the heart that erst was reft of hope
A brooding peace that reigns supreme,
And in the soul a sense
Of kinship unto God.
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