Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer, <br />Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, <br />Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, <br />Ceaseless, insistent. <br /> <br />The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maples <br />The wheel of a locust slowly grinding the silence, <br />Under a moon waning and warn and broken, <br />Tired with summer. <br /> <br />Let me remember you, voices of little insects, <br />Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters, <br />Let me remember you, soon the winter will be on us, <br />Snow-hushed and heartless. <br /> <br />Over my soul murmur your mute benediction <br />While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest, <br />As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to, <br />Lest they forget them.<br /><br />Sara Teasdale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/indian-summer-3/
