Indian Summer

Dear love, the rose has long since died,

The birds of spring are silent now,

The argent tendrils twine beside

The amber tresses on thy brow.

No note proclaims from muted lyres

That spring and we are far apart;

A late wind stirs the maple fires,

And lights aflame within my heart.

Love paints the skies with warmth and glow,

He sows with green the autumn sod,

Nor need we miss the rose, for lo,

The aster stars! The goldenrod.