 | Selections from the American poets |  |
INDIAN SUMMER.
Charles F. Hoffman.
Light as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The bluebird's notes, upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gayly leaping.
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The bluebird's notes, upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air she carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gayly leaping.
I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
That gayly deck the slow-declining year;
I love the splendour of thy sunset skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each falling leaf,
Lovely as Beauty's cheek, as woman's love too brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind she pours her parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
That gayly deck the slow-declining year;
I love the splendour of thy sunset skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each falling leaf,
Lovely as Beauty's cheek, as woman's love too brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind she pours her parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;
Though wild and passion-toss'd my youth may be,
Towards thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore—
I still can, childlike, come as when in prayer
I bow'd my head upon a mother's knee,
And deem'd the world, like her, all truth and purity.
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;
Though wild and passion-toss'd my youth may be,
Towards thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore—
I still can, childlike, come as when in prayer
I bow'd my head upon a mother's knee,
And deem'd the world, like her, all truth and purity.
| Selections from the American poets | |