OCR Text |
Show Indian Summer. Talk not of sad November, when a day Of warm, glad sunshine fills the sky of noon. And a wind, borrowed from some morn of June. Stirs the brown grasses and the leafless spray. On the unfrosted pool the pillared pines Lay their long shafts of shadow; the small rill Singing a pleasant song of summer still, A line of silver down the hill-slope shines. Softly the dark green hemlocks whisper; high Above, the spires of yellowing larches show Where the woodpecker and home-loving crow And, jay and nuthatch winter's threat defy. Oh. gracious beauty, ever new and old! Oh, sights and sounds of nature, doubly dear When the low sunshine warns the closing clos-ing year Of snow-blown fields and waves of Arctic cold. Close to my heart I fold each lovely thing The sweet day yields; and, not disconsolate. disconso-late. With the calm patience of the woods I wait For leaf and blossom when God gives us spring! J. G. Whtttler. |