St. Martins Summer

Though flowers have perished at the touch     Of Frost, the early comer,     I hail the season loved so much,     The good St. Martins summer.     O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn,     And thin moon curving oer it!     The old years darling, latest born,     More loved than all before it!     How flamed the sunrise through the pines!     How stretched the birchen shadows,     Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines     The westward sloping meadows!     The sweet day, opening as a flower     Unfolds its petals tender,     Renews for us at noontides hour     The summers tempered splendor.     The birds are hushed; alone the wind,     That through the woodland searches,     The red-oaks lingering leaves can find,     And yellow plumes of larches.     But still the balsam-breathing pine     Invites no thought of sorrow,     No hint of loss from air like wine     The earths content can borrow.     The summer and the winter here     Midway a truce are holding,     A soft, consenting atmosphere     Their tents of peace enfolding.     The silent woods, the lonely hills,     Rise solemn in their gladness;     The quiet that the valley fills     Is scarcely joy or sadness.     How strange! The autumn yesterday     In winters grasp seemed dying;     On whirling winds from skies of gray     The early snow was flying.     And now, while over Natures mood     There steals a soft relenting,     I will not mar the present good,     Forecasting or lamenting.     My autumn time and Natures hold     A dreamy tryst together,     And, both grown old, about us fold     The golden-tissued weather.     I lean my heart against the day     To feel its bland caressing;     I will not let it pass away     Before it leaves its blessing.     Gods angels come not as of old     The Syrian shepherds knew them;     In reddening dawns, in sunset gold,     And warm noon lights I view them.     Nor need there is, in times like this     When heaven to earth draws nearer,     Of wing or song as witnesses     To make their presence clearer.     O stream of life, whose swifter flow     Is of the end forewarning,     Methinks thy sundown afterglow     Seems less of night than morning!     Old cares grow light; aside I lay     The doubts and fears that troubled;     The quiet of the happy day     Within my soul is doubled.     That clouds must veil this fair sunshine     Not less a joy I find it;     Nor less yon warm horizon line     That winter lurks behind it.     The mystery of the untried days     I close my eyes from reading;     His will be done whose darkest ways     To light and life are leading!     Less drear the winter night shall be,     If memory cheer and hearten     Its heavy hours with thoughts of thee,     Sweet summer of St. Martin!