| |
| BY the purple haze that lies | |
| On the distant rocky height, | |
| By the deep blue of the skies, | |
| By the smoky amber light | |
| Through the forest arches streaming, | 5 |
| Where Nature on her throne sits dreaming, | |
| And the sun is scarcely gleaming | |
| Through the cloudlets, snowy white, | |
| Winter’s lovely herald greets us | |
| Ere the ice-crowned tyrant meets us. | 10 |
| |
| A mellow softness fills the air, | |
| No breeze on wanton wing steals by | |
| To break the holy quiet there, | |
| Or make the waters fret and sigh, | |
| Or the golden alders shiver | 15 |
| That bend to kiss the placid river, | |
| Flowing on and on for ever. | |
| But the little waves are sleeping, | |
| O’er the pebbles slowly creeping, | |
| That last night were flashing, leaping, | 20 |
| Driven by the restless breeze, | |
| In lines of foam beneath yon trees. | |
| |
| Dressed in robes of gorgeous hue, | |
| Brown and gold with crimson blent; | |
| The forest to the waters blue | 25 |
| Its own enchanting tints has lent; | |
| In their dark depths, life-like glowing, | |
| We see a second forest growing, | |
| Each pictured leaf and branch bestowing | |
| A fairy grace to that twin wood, | 30 |
| Mirror’d within the crystal flood. | |
| |
| ’Tis pleasant now in forest shades; | |
| The Indian hunter strings his bow | |
| To track through dark, entangling glades | |
| The antler’d deer and bounding doe, | 35 |
| Or launch at night the birch canoe, | |
| To spear the finny tribes that dwell | |
| On sandy bank, in weedy cell, | |
| Or pool the fisher knows right well— | |
| Seen by the red and vivid glow | 40 |
| Of pine-torch at his vessel’s bow. | |
| |
| This dreamy Indian-summer day | |
| Attunes the soul to tender sadness; | |
| We love—but joy not in the ray: | |
| It is not summer’s fervid gladness, | 45 |
| But a melancholy glory | |
| Hovering softly round decay, | |
| Like swan that sings her own sad story | |
| Ere she floats in death away | |
| |
| The day declines; what splendid dyes, | 50 |
| In flickered waves of crimson driven, | |
| Float o’er the saffron sea that lies | |
| Glowing within the western heaven! | |
| Oh, it is a peerless even! | |
| See, the broad red sun is set, | 55 |
| But his rays are quivering yet | |
| Through nature’s veil of violet, | |
| Streaming bright o’er lake and hill; | |
| But earth and forest lie so still, | |
| It sendeth to the heart a chill; | 60 |
| We start to check the rising tear— | |
| ’Tis Beauty sleeping on her bier. | |
| |
