The sun of life has crossed the line;
—The summer-shine of lengthened light
Faded and failed, till, where I stand,
—'Tis equal day and equal night.

One after one, as dwindling hours,
—Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away,
And soon may barely leave the gleam
—That coldly scores a winter's day.

I am not young; I am not old;
—The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
Paling and deepening, each to each,
—Meet midway with a solemn charm.

One side I see the summer fields,
—Not yet disrobed of all their green;
While westerly, along the hills,
—Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm
—Make battle-ground of this my life!
Where, even-matched, the night and day
—Wage round me their September strife!

I bow me to the threatening gale:
—I know when that is overpast,
Among the peaceful harvest days,
—An Indian Summer comes at last!