To track, through dark entangled glades,
The antler'd deer and bounding doe;
Or launch at night his birch canoe,
To spear the finny tribes that dwell
On sandy bank, in weedy cell,
Or pool the fisher knows right well,--
Seen by the red and livid glow
Of pine-torch at his vessel's bow.
This dreamy Indian summer-day
Attunes the soul to tender sadness: