An Indian-Summer Reverie

What visionary tints the year puts on,When falling leaves falter through motionless airOr numbly cling and shiver to be gone!How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare,As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fillsThe bowl between me and those distant hills,And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!

No more the landscape holds its wealth apart.Making me poorer in my poverty,But mingles with my senses and my heart;My own projected spirit seems to meIn her own reverie the world to steep;'Tis she that waves to sympathetic sleep,Moving, as she is moved, each field and hill, and tree.

How fuse and mix, with what unfelt degrees,Clasped by the faint horizon's languid arms,Each into each, the hazy distances!The softened season all the landscape charms;Those hills, my native village that embay,In waves of dreamier purple roll away,And floating in mirage seem all the glimmering farms.

Far distant sounds the hidden chickadeeClose at my side; far distant sound the leaves;The fields seem fields of dream, where MemoryWanders like gleaning Ruth; and as the sheavesOf wheat and barley wavered in the eyeOf Boaz as the maiden's glow went by,So tremble and seem remote all things the sense receives.

The cock's shrill trump that tells of scattered corn,Passed breezily on by all his flapping mates,Faint and more faint, from barn to barn is borne,Southward, perhaps to far Magellan's Straits;Dimly I catch the throb of distant flails;Silently overhead the henhawk sails,With watchful, measuring eye, and for his quarry waits.

The sobered robin, hunger-silent now,Seeks cedar-berries blue, his autumn cheer;The squirrel on the shingly shagbark's bough,Now saws, now lists with downward eye and ear,Then drops his nut, and, with a chipping bound,Whisks to his winding fastness underground;The clouds like swans drift down the streaming atmosphere.

O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar shadowsDrowse on the crisp, gray moss; the ploughman's callCreeps faint as smoke from black, fresh-furrowed meadows;The single crow a single caw lets fall;And all around me every bush and treeSays Autumn 's here, and Winter soon will beWho snows his soft, white sleep and silence over all.

The birch, most shy and lady-like of trees,Her poverty, as best she may, retrieves,And hints at her foregone gentilitiesWith some saved relics of her wealth of leaves;The swamp-oak, with his royal purple on,Glares red as blood across the sinking sun,As one who proudlier to a falling fortune cleaves.

He looks a sachem, in red blanket wrapt,Who, mid some council of the sad-garbed whites,Erect and stern, in his own memories lapt,With distant eye broods over other sights,Sees the hushed wood the city's flare replace,The wounded turf heal o'er the railway's trace,And roams the savage Past of his undwindled rights.

The red-oak, softer-grained, yields all for lost,And, with his crumpled foliage stiff and dry,After the first betrayal of the frost,Rebuffs the kiss of the relenting sky;The chestnuts, lavish of their long-hid gold,To the faint Summer, beggared now and old,Pour back the sunshine hoarded 'neath her favoring eye.

The ash her purple drops forgivinglyAnd sadly, breaking not the general hush;The maple-swamps glow like a sunset sea,Each leaf a ripple with its separate flush;All round the wood's edge creeps the skirting blazeOf bushes low, as when, on cloudy days,Ere the rain falls, the cautious farmer burns his brush.

O'er yon low wall, which guards one unkempt zone,Where vines, and weeds, and scrub-oaks intertwineSafe from the plough, whose rough, discordant stoneIs massed to one soft gray by lichens fine,The tangled blackberry, crossed and recrossed, weavesA prickly network of ensanguined leaves;Hard by, with coral beads, the prim black-alders shine.

Pillaring with flame this crumbling boundary,Whose loose blocks topple 'neath the ploughboy's foot,Who, with each sense shut fast except the eye,Creeps close and scares the jay he hoped to shoot,The woodbine up the elm's straight stem aspires.Coiling it, harmless, with autumnal fires;In the ivy's paler blaze the martyr oak stands mute.

Below, the Charles--a stripe of nether sky,Now hid by rounded apple-trees between,Whose gaps the misplaced sail sweeps bellying by,Now flickering golden through a woodland screen,Then spreading out at his next turn beyond,A silver circle like an inland pond--Slips seaward silently through marshes purple and green.

Dear marshes! vain to him the gift of sightWho cannot in their various incomes share,From every season drawn, of shade and light,Who sees in them but levels brown and bare;Each change of storm or sunshine scatters freeOn them its largesse of variety,For nature with cheap means still works her wonders rare.

In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green,O'er which the light winds run with glimmering feet;Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen,There, darker growths o'er hidden ditches meet;And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd,As if the silent shadow of a cloudHung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet.

All round, upon the river's slippery edge,Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide,Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge;Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide,Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun,And the stiff banks in eddies melt and runOf dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide.

In Summer 'tis a blithesome sight to see,As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass,The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee,Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass;Then, stretched beneath a rick's shade in a ring,Their nooning take, while one begins to singA stave that droops and dies 'neath the close sky of brass.

Meanwhile the devil-may-care, the bobolink,Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stopsJust ere he sweeps o'er rapture's tremulous brink,And 'twixt the winrows most demurely drops,A decorous bird of business, who providesFor his brown mate and fledglings six besides,And looks from right to left, a farmer mid his crops.

Another change subdues them in the Fall,But saddens not; they still show merrier tints,Though sober russet seems to cover all;When the first sunshine through their dew-drops glints,Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across,Redeems with rarer hues the season's loss,As Dawn's feet there had touched and left their rosy prints.

Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest,Lean o'er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill,While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west,Glow opposite;--the marshes drink their fillAnd swoon with purple veins, then slowly fadeThrough pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade,Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond's darkening hill.

Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts,Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates,And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts,While firmer ice the eager boy awaits,Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire,And until bed-time plays with his desire,Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;--

Then, every morn, the river's banks shine brightWith smooth plate-armor, treacherous and frail,By the frost's clinking hammers forged at night,'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail,Giving a pretty emblem of the dayWhen guiltier arms in light shall melt away,And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from war's cramping mail.

And now those waterfalls the ebbing riverTwice every day creates on either sideTinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots they shiverIn grass-arched channels to the sun denied;High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard crow,The silvered flats gleam frostily below,Suddenly drops the gull and breaks the glassy tide.

But, crowned in turn by vying seasons three,Their winter halo hath a fuller ring;This glory seems to rest immovably,--The others were too fleet and vanishing;When the hid tide is at its highest flow,O'er marsh and stream one breathless trance of snowWith brooding fulness awes and hushes everything.

The sunshine seems blown off by the bleak wind,As pale as formal candles lit by day;Gropes to the sea the river dumb and blind;The brown ricks, snow-thatched by the storm in play,Show pearly breakers combing o'er their lee,White crests as of some just enchanted sea,Checked in their maddest leap and hanging poised midway.

But when the eastern blow, with rain aslant,From mid-sea's prairies green and rolling plainsDrives in his wallowing herds of billows gaunt,And the roused Charles remembers in his veinsOld Ocean's blood and snaps his gyves of frost,That tyrannous silence on the shores is tostIn dreary wreck, and crumbling desolation reigns.

Edgewise or flat, in Druid-like device,With leaden pools between or gullies bare,The blocks lie strewn, a bleak Stonehenge of ice;No life, no sound, to break the grim despair,Save sullen plunge, as through the sedges stiffDown crackles riverward some thaw-sapped cliff,Or when the close-wedged fields of ice crunch here and there.

But let me turn from fancy-pictured scenesTo that whose pastoral calm before me lies:Here nothing harsh or rugged intervenes;The early evening with her misty dyesSmooths off the ravelled edges of the nigh,Relieves the distant with her cooler sky,And tones the landscape down, and soothes the wearied eyes.

There gleams my native village, dear to me,Though higher change's waves each day are seen,Whelming fields famed in boyhood's history,Sanding with houses the diminished green;There, in red brick, which softening time defies,Stand square and stiff the Muses' factories;--How with my life knit up is every well-known scene!

Flow on, dear river! not alone you flowTo outward sight, and through your marshes wind;Fed from the mystic springs of long-ago,Your twin flows silent through my world of mind:Grow dim, dear marshes, in the evening's gray!Before my inner sight ye stretch away,And will forever, though these fleshly eyes grow blind.

Beyond that hillock's house-bespotted swell,Where Gothic chapels house the horse and chaise,Where quiet cits in Grecian temples dwell,Where Coptic tombs resound with prayer and praise,Where dust and mud the equal year divide,There gentle Allston lived, and wrought, and died,Transfiguring street and shop with his illumined gaze.

Virgilium vidi tantum,--I have seenBut as a boy, who looks alike on all,That misty hair, that fine Undine-like mien,Tremulous as down to feeling's faintest call;--Ah, dear old homestead! count it to thy fameThat thither many times the Painter came;--One elm yet bears his name, a feathery tree and tall.

Swiftly the present fades in memory's glow,--Our only sure possession is the past;The village blacksmith died a month ago,And dim to me the forge's roaring blast;Soon fire-new mediævals we shall seeOust the black smithy from its chestnut tree,And that hewn down, perhaps, the beehive green and vast.

How many times, prouder than king on throne,Loosed from the village school-dame's A's and B's,Panting have I the creaky bellows blown,And watched the pent volcano's red increase,Then paused to see the ponderous sledge, brought downBy that hard arm voluminous and brown,From the white iron swarm its golden vanishing bees.

Dear native town! whose choking elms each yearWith eddying dust before their time turn gray,Pining for rain,--to me thy dust is dear;It glorifies the eve of summer day,And when the westering sun half-sunken burns,The mote-thick air to deepest orange turns,The westward horseman rides through clouds of gold away,

So palpable, I've seen those unshorn few,The six old willows at the causey's end,(Such trees Paul Potter never dreamed nor drew,)Through this dry mist their checkering shadows send,Striped, here and there, with many a long-drawn thread,Where streamed through leafy chinks the trembling red,Past which, in one bright trail, the hangbird's flashes blend.

Yes, dearer far thy dust than all that e'er,Beneath the awarded crown of victory,Gilded the blown Olympic charioteer;Though lightly prized the ribboned parchments three,Yet collegisse juvat, I am gladThat here what colleging was mine I had,--It linked another tie, dear native town, with thee!

Nearer art thou than simply native earth,My dust with thine concedes a deeper tie;A closer claim thy soil may well put forth,Something of kindred more than sympathy;For in thy bounds I reverently laid awayThat blinding anguish of forsaken clay,That title I seemed to have in earth and sea and sky,

That portion of my life more choice to me(Though brief, yet in itself so round and whole)Than all the imperfect residue can be;--The Artist saw his statue of the soulWas perfect; so, with one regretful stroke,The earthen model into fragments broke,And without her the impoverished seasons roll.