Indian Summer
Yes, the sweet summer lingers still;
The hares loiter on the hill;
The year, a spendthrift growing old,
Is scattering his lavish gold
For a last pleasure.
The robins flock, but would not go;
We share the word with footsteps slow,
In sober leisure,
Or sit beneath the chestnut-tree,
Our hands in silent company.
Not yet, dear friend, we part, not yet;
Full soon the last warm sun will set;
The cricket cease to stir the grass;
The gold and amber fade away;
The scarlet from the landscape pass,
And all the sky be sodden gray;—
Too soon, alas, the frost must fall
And blight the asters on the hill,
The golden-rod, the gentians, all,
And we must feel the parting chill.
But oh, not yet, not yet we part:
The Summer strains us to her heart:
The world is all a golden smile,
And we may love a little while;
The Summer dies, and hearts forget,
And we must part, — not yet, not yet.
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