Indian Summer

By George Sterling

Come with me to some woodland where the chill
    Of autumn stirs with ecstasy the day,
    Or where the tranquil edges of a bay
Shoal to untroubled turquoise, pure and still;
There let immortal Beauty have her will
    In that hushed temple of the year's delay,
    Crowning thy heavens with her holy ray,
While the heart leaps and eyes unbidden fill.

Assent thou not unto the year's "Alas!"
    Tho all that is depart and leave no trace.
Suffice it, ere the lonely vision pass,
    That loveliness be given for a space,
When, set with stars, the soul's deep waters glass
    The glory and the sorrow of her face.
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