The old grey year is near his term in sooth, <br />And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm <br />Awakens to a golden dream of youth, <br />A second childhood lovely and most calm, <br />And the smooth hour about his misty head <br />An awning of enchanted splendour weaves, <br />Of maples, amber, purple and rose-red, <br />And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves. <br />With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreams <br />Far in a hollow of the sunlit wood, <br />Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams, <br />Nor sees the polar armies overflood <br />The darkening barriers of the hills, nor hears <br />The north-wind ringing with a thousand spears.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/indian-summer-13/
