Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Indian Summer
INDIAN SUMMER.
Tell me, ye whose locks are whiter
Than the frozen winter snow,
Tell me if your hearts grew lighter,
And your hopes of heaven brighter,
As the beat of life grew slow;
Is there, say, an Indian summer
After life's autumnal glow?
Gentle youth, and ardent manhood,
Spring and summer emblem well;
Ripened fields and fading greenwood,
Withered blossoms, pale and wind-strewed,
Of life's wasting fullness tell;
And the bleak and barren winter
Has in age its parallel.
But when all the freshness faded
And the wintry cold was near,
When the locks that once had shaded
Youthful brows, with gray were braided,
Were your spirits cold and drear?
Or came there a mellow brightness
Warming life's dull atmosphere?
Tell me, for I dread the healing
Of the heart above its dead—
Its dead dreams of hope and feeling,
And its passionate revealing
In the bitter tear-drops shed
Long, and long, by wounded fondness—
Wounded love that wept and bled.
Tell me that, though pale and withered,
All the flowers of feeling lie;
That no frost above has gathered,
And no icy bound has tethered
The strong soul's intensity;
Tell me ye can love and suffer,
Hope and trust yet earnestly.
Let me think that calm and holy,
Gently warm and softly light,
Neither gay nor melancholy,
Neither sad nor joyous wholly,
But all sweetly still and bright,
Like a lovely Indian summer,
Age may come and bring no blight.
But if storms must moan and shiver,
Through life's late autumnal trees,
God! I pray thee, though they quiver
Life's frail cords for aye and ever,
With the sharpest agonies,
Let my soul remain unaltered,
My heart keep its sympathies.
Let life's fever, hot and burning,
All consume me with its flame;
Let me die of hopeless yearning,
And a grief that knows no turning
Feed upon my mortal frame,
Till it perish with endurance,
But quench not my spirit's flame!
Softly bright, or wildly glaring,
Let my soul-fires ever shine,
Full of passion high and daring,
Or the warm, soft radiance wearing
That is given for a sign
That the soul within is lighted
At some holy angel-shrine;
But let not the senseless coldness
Of a withered heart be mine.