INDIAN SUMMER.
It is the season when the light of dreams
Around the year in golden glory lies—
The heavens are full of floating mysteries,
And in the lake the vailed splendor gleams!
Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,
Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,
While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance.
The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,
Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake.
There the frail maples, and the faithful firs
By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake
Skirts the low pool, and starred with open burrs
The chestnut stands; but when the north-wind stirs,
How like an armed host the summoned scene shall wake!
T. B. Read.