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

                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,

         Throughout the long, still autumn day

               Wild birds are flying south.