---

Henry Van Dyke - Indian Summer
Work rating: Medium

A soft veil dims the tender skies,
And half conceals from pensive eyes
 The bronzing tokens of the fall;
A calmness broods upon the hills,
And summer`s parting dream distills
 A charm of silence over all.

The stacks of corn, in brown array,
Stand waiting through the placid day,
 Like tattered wigwams on the plain;
The tribes that find a shelter there
Are phantom peoples, forms of air,
 And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

At evening when the crimson crest
Of sunset passes down the West,
 I hear the whispering host returning;
On far-off fields, by elm and oak,
I see the lights, I smell the smoke,—
 The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.