 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
430
INDIAN SUMMER.
When the Indian summer came,
The prodigals of Nature gathered in
The slender autumn grain that grew within
Their little fields along the rivers—late
Their harvest and the hoar-frost drawing near
With all his lances; what would be their fate
If that last sunshine came not? Yet no fear
Felt they—the Indian summer always came.
The prodigals of Nature gathered in
The slender autumn grain that grew within
Their little fields along the rivers—late
Their harvest and the hoar-frost drawing near
With all his lances; what would be their fate
If that last sunshine came not? Yet no fear
Felt they—the Indian summer always came.
Old Nature loved her prodigals
The idle sons who roamed her golden West,
Scouring her prairie miles, with lance at rest,
For the mere joy of feeling the swift wind
Keen on their tawny cheeks; her thrifty ways
Of spring-time seed they laughed to scorn and sinned
And rioted through all her harvest-days;
And yet—the Indian summer always came.
The idle sons who roamed her golden West,
Scouring her prairie miles, with lance at rest,
For the mere joy of feeling the swift wind
Keen on their tawny cheeks; her thrifty ways
Of spring-time seed they laughed to scorn and sinned
And rioted through all her harvest-days;
And yet—the Indian summer always came.
When the Indian summer comes
In lives, then prodigals do gather in
Their small, late-planted harvest, sadly thin
The sheaves; yet with glad hands they hoard their store,
And deem it golden plenty—they forget
What sheaves they might have had; and, though the hoar
Of coming winter on their locks is set,
Though late—their Indian summer always comes.
In lives, then prodigals do gather in
Their small, late-planted harvest, sadly thin
The sheaves; yet with glad hands they hoard their store,
And deem it golden plenty—they forget
What sheaves they might have had; and, though the hoar
Of coming winter on their locks is set,
Though late—their Indian summer always comes.
For Nature loves her prodigals—
After our wasted months she grants the days
Of Indian summer's golden purple haze;
After our wasted lives she gives a time
For late repentance when we gather in
A slender store of virtues; all our prime
Was wasted, soon the snows of age begin,
And yet—our Indian summer always comes.
After our wasted months she grants the days
Of Indian summer's golden purple haze;
After our wasted lives she gives a time
For late repentance when we gather in
A slender store of virtues; all our prime
Was wasted, soon the snows of age begin,
And yet—our Indian summer always comes.
O well-remembered prodigal
Whom we all know, was it at this fair time—
The Indian summer of our Western clime—
That thou didst hasten to thy father? Come,
Arise, let us go forth; our Father waits—
Not here among the empty husks, our home—
Far in the purple skies, the golden gates
Of Indian summer open—prodigals, come!
Whom we all know, was it at this fair time—
The Indian summer of our Western clime—
That thou didst hasten to thy father? Come,
Arise, let us go forth; our Father waits—
Not here among the empty husks, our home—
Far in the purple skies, the golden gates
Of Indian summer open—prodigals, come!
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |