Now where the autumn leaves lie on the ground,
And the dark river flows with a sullen sound,
And the white cloud of mist rises up from the gloom
Like the ghost that I laid bursting out of its tomb,
Come I each twilight and pillow my head
On the dark withered leaves—the grave of the dead,
And list to the murmur of leaves and of river,
Praying sleep may descend on my eyelids forever.
INDIAN SUMMER.
Tell me, ye whose locks are whiter
Than the frozen winter snow,
Tell me if your hearts grew lighter,
And your hopes of heaven brighter,
As the beat of life grew slow;
Is there, say, an Indian summer
After life's autumnal glow?
Gentle youth, and ardent manhood,
Spring and summer emblem well;
Ripened fields and fading greenwood,
Withered blossoms, pale and wind-strewed,
Of life's wasting fullness tell;
And the bleak and barren winter
Has in age its parallel.
But when all the freshness faded
And the wintry cold was near,
When the locks that once had shaded
Youthful brows, with gray were braided,
Were your spirits cold and drear?
Or came there a mellow brightness
Warming life's dull atmosphere?
