Snowflakes and Sunbeams

by William Wilfred Campbell


 

INDIAN SUMMER


 

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

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   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,

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Throughout the long, still autumn day
   Wild birds are flying south.