 | Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay |  |
INDIAN SUMMER.
LITTLE LEAVES ARE BURNING IN THE STREET:
AND LITTLE FLAMES LIE HEARTS UPON THEM BEAT.
THE SMOKE GOES HIGH ABOVE THE TREE-TOPS BARE.
WHITE SMOKE AND GREY NOW MAKE THE CITY FAIR.
AND LITTLE FLAMES LIE HEARTS UPON THEM BEAT.
THE SMOKE GOES HIGH ABOVE THE TREE-TOPS BARE.
WHITE SMOKE AND GREY NOW MAKE THE CITY FAIR.
OH SPICY SMOKE, THE LITTLE BOYS DELIGHT!
YOU BLESS HIS DAYS. AND MAKE HIM HOPE FOR NIGHT.
FOR NIGHT-FIRES OF THE GUTTERS, BURNING BRIGHT.
YOU BLESS HIS DAYS. AND MAKE HIM HOPE FOR NIGHT.
FOR NIGHT-FIRES OF THE GUTTERS, BURNING BRIGHT.
| Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | |