Poems (Larcom)/The Indian Summer
THE INDIAN SUMMER.
TIS the time When the chime Of the seasons' choral band is ringing out. Smoky brightness fills the air, For the light winds everywhere Censers full of flowery embers swing about. There is sweetness that oppresses, As a tender parting blesses; There 's a softened glow of beauty, As when Love is wreathing Duty; There are melodies that seem Weaving past and future into one fair dream.
To her bier Comes the year Not with weeping and distress, as mortals do; But, to guide her way to it, All the trees have torches lit; Blazing red the maples shine the woodlands through; Gay witch-hazels in the river Watch their own bright tapers quiver; Flickering burn the birches yellow Through the walnuts brown and mellow; Dark, sad pines stand breathless by, Mourners sole, and mourning that they cannot die
Through the trees Tolls the breeze. Tolls, then rings a merry peal, and tolls again. Dead leaves, shaken by the sound, Slowly float and drop around. So does memory lull or echo thoughts of pain. Dead leaves lie upon earth's bosom, Side by side with many a blossom; Gentians, fringed with azure glory,— Sky-flakes, dropped on meadows hoary; Asters, thick and bright as sparks Struck by seraph oarsmen from their starry barks
O, to die When the sky Smiles behind the Indian Summer's hazy veil! Thus to glorify decay, Going in life's best array, Unto groves where death is a forgotten tale, Falls a sorrow on the spirit? Heavenly hopes are springing near it. Earth, a happy child, rejoices, Keeping time with angel voices. When such autumn days are done, There 's a crown behind thy rays, thou setting sun!