Indian Summer

The Autumn,—a tawny Sultana, 
     In wealth oriental arrayed,
Lies a-swoon on the hillside and sunny savannah,
     Entranced by the glory she made.

No hues from the palette of Titian
     Could render her garments more rare,
Nor the shoulders, sun-kissed, in that luminous vision, 
     The gleam of her wind-rippled hair!

The crimsons, that fire, at their bases, 
     What purples the hill-shadows hold,
The dark, splendid glooms of the oak, the light traces
     Of beech, and the birch's wan gold, 

Are the warp of her beautiful vesture, 
     With sunbeams for woof, and it flows 
Like a rainbow dissolved, over woodland and pasture,
     All bathed in a tender repose.

Her treasures of purple and amber,
     Rich rubies and esculent gold,
Wide, under the dome of her blue-fretted chamber,
     Lie scattered with largesse untold.

Great emeralds mellowed to nectar,
     Huge chrysoprase globes for our Feast, 
Dark garnets, in clusters, uncursed by the specter 
     That, haunting the wine-cup thou seest,

Fruit-gems of all hues that can gladden 
     The palate, the eye, and the heart, 
In orchards outvieing [sic] the groves of Aladdin, 
     For the beauty and life they impart.

Oh, veiling her uttermost splendor,
     And deepening the charm by that veil, 
A soft molten amethyst, dreamy and tender, 
     All round her floods mountain and dale.

"Tis the soul of the Summer, returning 
     To comfort the year as it dies;
"Tis the dream of the earth for its Paradise yearning,
     A visible wraith to our eyes!

The year, — let it die into glory,
     And leave the rich Autumn a-swoon;
The vanishing season flings open a doorway
     To splendors unseen at its noon!