There is no great and no small
To the Soul that maketh all:
And where it cometh, all things are:—
And it cometh everywhere.
Emerson.
[XLIX]. INDIAN SUMMER.[J]
Samuel Lover.—1797-1868.
When summer's verdant beauty flies,
And autumn glows with richer dyes,
A softer charm beyond them lies—
It is the Indian summer.
Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze
Bereave of beauty all the trees,
The balmy spring renewal sees
In the sweet Indian summer.
And thus, dear love, if early years
Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears,
A later gleam of hope appears—
Just like the Indian summer:
And ere the snows of age descend,
O trust me, dear one, changeless friend,
Our falling years may brightly end—
Just like the Indian summer.