Classic Poem

And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid!
How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand,
With step arrested, on the bridge that joins
The Past and Future—thy one hand waving
Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set
Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched
To greet advancing Winter!
Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous
Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;—
Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks
Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost.
From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too,
Once more behold the panorama fair
Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope
That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring,
His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds:
O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees,
The merry birds flit in and out, to choose
A happy resting-place; and singing rills
Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes
Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers,
That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe,
And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore
The fallen nestling, venturous and weak:
While many a nursling claims her tender care.
Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice,
And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain
Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close,
Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit
To overflowing garners; measure full,
And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air
A myriad wings circle in restless sort;
And from the rustling woods there comes a sound
Of dropping nuts and acorns—welcome store
To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe:
Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse.
How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls
With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee
And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile.