INDIAN SUMMER

by: Danske Dandridge (1854-1914)

ES, 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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