INDIAN SUMMER.
Withal there comes a time when summers wane,
When from the sunshine something seems withdrawn,
And pensive shadows lengthen on the lawn;
White bindweed wanders lonely in the lane,
The one sweet thing that now unwithered doth remain.
But there is beauty in autumnal bough
No less than in dear April's dewy leaves,
When with its store of golden-girdled sheaves
Piled stands the wain where one time passed the plow,