• Indian Summer

    For those of you who love the idea of Indian summers perhaps this poem by William Campbell:

    Along the line of smoky hills
    The crimson forest stands,
    And all the 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 great marshes wrapt in mist,
    Or past some river's mouth,
    Throughout the long, still autumn day
    Wild birds are flying south.


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