The Indian Summer

TIS the timeWhen the chimeOf the seasons' choral band is ringing out.Smoky brightness fills the air,For the light winds everywhereCensers 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 seemWeaving past and future into one fair dream.

To her bierComes the yearNot 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 riverWatch their own bright tapers quiver;Flickering burn the birches yellowThrough the walnuts brown and mellow;Dark, sad pines stand breathless by,Mourners sole, and mourning that they cannot die

Through the treesTolls 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 sparksStruck by seraph oarsmen from their starry barks

O, to dieWhen the skySmiles 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!