Indian Summer Dreams

A soft veil dims the tender skies,

And half conceals from pensive eyes

The bronzing tokens of the fall;

A calmness broods upon the hills

And summer’s parting dream distills

A silence of mourning over all.

The stacks of corn, in brown array,

Stand waiting through a placid day,

Like tattered wigwams on the plain

The tribes that find a shelter there,

Are phantom people, form of air,

And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.


At evening when the crimson crest,

Of sunset past down the West,

I hear the whispering host returning,

On far-off fields, by elm and oak,

I see the lights, I smell the smoke,

The camp-fires of the past are burning.





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