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Archibald Lampman - Indian Summer
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The old grey year is near his term in sooth,
 And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm
 Awakens to a golden dream of youth,
 A second childhood lovely and most calm,
 And the smooth hour about his misty head
 An awning of enchanted splendour weaves,
 Of maples, amber, purple and rose-red,
 And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves.
 With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreams
 Far in a hollow of the sunlit wood,
 Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams,
 Nor sees the polar armies overflood
 The darkening barriers of the hills, nor hears
 The north-wind ringing with a thousand spears.
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