Littell's Living Age/Volume 131/Issue 1692/Indian Summer



Weep, weep, November rain:
White mists, fall like a shroud
Upon the dead earth's ended joy and pain;
Wild blasts, lift up your voices, cry aloud,
Dash down the last leaves from the quivering boughs,
And wail about the house,
O melancholy wind,
Like one that seeketh and can never find.

But come not, O sweet days,
Out of yon cloudless blue,
Ghosts of so many dear remembered Mays,
With faces like dead lovers, who died true.
Come not, lest we go seek with eyes all wet,
Primrose and violet,
Forgetting that they lie
Deep in the mould till winter has gone by.

— Till winter has gone by!
Come then, days bright and strange,
Quiet, while this mad world whirls reckless by,
Restful, amidst this life of restless change.
Shine on, sweet Indian summer, tender, calm,
The year's last thankful psalm
To God you smiling bring.
— We too will smile: and wait the eternal spring.

Sunday Magazine.