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.