INDIAN SUMMER

The dawn is a warp of fever,

The eve is a woof of fire;

And the month is a singing weaver

Weaving a red desire.

With stars Dawn dices with Even

For the rosy gold they heap

On the blue of the day's deep heaven,

On the black of the night's far deep.

It's —‘ Reins to the blood!’ and‘ Marry!’ —

The season's a prince who burns

With the teasing lusts that harry

His heart for a wench who spurns.

It's —‘ Crown us a beaker with sherry,

To drink to the doxy's heels;

A tankard of wine o’ the berry,

To lips like a cloven peel's.

‘'S death! if a king be saddened,

Right so let a fool laugh lies:

But wine! when a king is gladdened,

And a woman's waist and her eyes.’

He hath shattered the loom of the weaver,

And left but a leaf that flits,

He hath seized heaven's gold, and a fever

Of mist and of frost is its.

He hath tippled the buxom beauty,

And gotten her hug and her kiss —

The wide world's royal booty

To pile at her feet for this.