The Singing Garden

Indian Summer

C.J. Dennis

WINTER had come to frown a little while,
    And bluster from his skies of sodden grey,
Until bland Autumn, with a cheerful smile,
    Chased him into the dark hills far away;
    Returning then to stay
Where singing birds the silver dawns beguile
And sunsets burn down an illumined aisle
    Day after golden day.

Now comes a season of surprised delight.
    The alien trees, now loath to lose their leaves,
Strive yet to hold their yellow treasure tight.
    Shy swallows twitter by the sun-bathed eaves
    And, while sly Autumn thieves
Yet more of Winter’s days, postpone their flight.
Birds hymn the day; but thro’ the windless night
    A gloomy mopoke grieves.

Under the azure noon the forest sleeps
    Drugged by this sudden and unlooked-for balm.
Up from her lowly bed a primrose peeps,
    Tempted too soon by hours of spring-like calm
    Spilled from a lavish palm.
And now, from where the hill-stream laughs and leaps,
The thrush’s evensong, as slow dusk creeps,
    Lifts like a grateful psalm.

The Singing Garden - Contents    |     First Frost

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