Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
|
INDIAN SUMMER. |
 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
128
INDIAN SUMMER.
Soft falls the hazy light upon
The hillside, plain, and vale;
The yellow leaves bestrew my path,
And down the stream they sail.
I note them halting by the brink,
And idling as they run,
Or dancing o'er the ripples bright
That glimmer in the sun.
The hillside, plain, and vale;
The yellow leaves bestrew my path,
And down the stream they sail.
I note them halting by the brink,
And idling as they run,
Or dancing o'er the ripples bright
That glimmer in the sun.
On yonder woody bank I hear
A rustling 'mid the leaves;
Borne on the still and hollow air
The sound my ear deceives;
I deem the heavy-treading kine
Are coming down the brae,
When nothing but a squirrel light
Is skipping there away.
A rustling 'mid the leaves;
Borne on the still and hollow air
The sound my ear deceives;
I deem the heavy-treading kine
Are coming down the brae,
When nothing but a squirrel light
Is skipping there away.
129
The hunter's distant gun I hear
The forest echoes wake;
'Tis pity that such sullen sounds
The holy calm should break!
I fancy how with dying throes
The harmless quarry bleeds;
How man but little mercy shows,
Who so much mercy needs!
The forest echoes wake;
'Tis pity that such sullen sounds
The holy calm should break!
I fancy how with dying throes
The harmless quarry bleeds;
How man but little mercy shows,
Who so much mercy needs!
A solitary bee afield,
Allured by these bright hours,
Flits like a fay before my eyes;—
She'll find no honey-flowers,
For they have perished; one by one
I marked them fade from view,
And nothing but the blackened stalk
Appears where late they grew.
Allured by these bright hours,
Flits like a fay before my eyes;—
She'll find no honey-flowers,
For they have perished; one by one
I marked them fade from view,
And nothing but the blackened stalk
Appears where late they grew.
How kind, how pleasant is this sun,
When cold the winds have blown!
The winds that bear the early frosts
Down from the bleaker zone.
'Tis not the burning August sun,
Nor that of fierce July,
But soft effulgence lights the earth,
And glorifies the sky.
When cold the winds have blown!
The winds that bear the early frosts
Down from the bleaker zone.
'Tis not the burning August sun,
Nor that of fierce July,
But soft effulgence lights the earth,
And glorifies the sky.
It is the Indian summer time!
So full of placid joy;
The dolce far niente that
I dreamed of when a boy.
And it is like a blissful dream,
Like such it soon is past;
Too bright to linger with us long,
Too beautiful to last.
So full of placid joy;
The dolce far niente that
I dreamed of when a boy.
And it is like a blissful dream,
Like such it soon is past;
Too bright to linger with us long,
Too beautiful to last.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |