IN THE INDIAN SUMMER
By Joaquin Miller.
The squirrels chattered in the leaves,
The turkeys call'd from paw-paw wood,
The deer with lifted nostrils stood,
And humming-birds did wind and weave,
Swim round about, dart in and out,
Through fragrant forest edge made red,
Made many colored overhead
By climbing blossoms sweet with bee
And yellow rose of Cherokee.
Then frost came by and touched the leaves;
Then time hung ices on the eaves;
Then cushion-snows possessed the ground,
And so the seasons kept their round.
Yet still old Morgan went and came
From cabin door to forest dim.
Through wold of snows, through wood of flame.
Through golden Indian-Summer days
Hung round in soft September haze;
And no man crossed or questioned him.
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