Indian Summer Poem by Nero CaroZiv

In that time of year of Indian summer you may see my days old
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, in warm crimson orchard do hang
Upon those boughs which will soon shake shrunk against the pacing cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the summer sweet birds sang.


In me, old brittle me you see the twilight of such day
As after sunset fades at dusk in the west;
Which by and by black night does take away,
Death comes to me like a night to an owl to seal up all in rest.


In me you see none of the glowing of such youth fire,
Any youth that on the ashes of his self does lie,
As the death-bed, whereon one must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

In this Indian summer day, along the line of smoky hills
The host of trees waiting for their renewal, in the depth of forest stand,
As I sit on the porch listening to an all the day blue-jay calls
Throughout the vast autumn land.


Now by the running nimble brook the maple leans
like an adorable woman in a ball gown with all his glory spread,
And all the ancient palm so tall and so proud on the hills
Yet the cider trees has not turned their green to red.

Warm evening by great marshes enfolded by rising mist in gray,
The soft water murmur of some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, still warm autumn day
A huge commotions in the skies; wild birds are flying south.


Must it be for us that the sweetest things run sour by their own being and deeds

Yet time and seasons are separated from us by their renewal and re-breed




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