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.
POEMS BY DANSKE DANDRIDGE
"Indian Summer" is reprinted
from Joy, and Other Poems. Danske Dandridge. New York:
G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1900.