Indian Summer
Along the lines of smoky
hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all day the blue jay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.
Now by the brook the
maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumachs on the hills
Have turned their green to red.
Now by the great
marshes warpt in mist,
Or past some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, still autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.
A Vagabond Song
There is something in
the autumn that is native to my blood-
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the
maples can shake me like a cry
Of bulges going by,
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
There is something in
October sets the gypdy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.
The
Fog
I saw the fog grow
thick,
Which soon blinded my ken;
It made tall men of boys,
And giants of tall men.
It clutched my throat, I
coughed;
Nothing was in my head
Except two heavy eyes
Like balls of burning lead.
And when it grew so
black
That I could know no place,
I lost all judgement then,
Of distance and space
The street lamps, and
the lights
Upon the halted cars,
Could either be on earth
Or be the hevenly stars
A man passed by me
close,
I asked for my way, he said
"Come, follow me, my friend"-
I followed where he led.
He rapped the stones in
front,
"Trust me," he said,"and come";
I followed like a child-
A blind man led me home. |