With your hazy distances,

And your fine insistences,

Of russet, amber, brown,

From what region dost thou journey

Hither to our fields a-tourney,

Flinging thy dim gauntlet down?

Dost thou come from Southern seas?

Or from mountain fastnesses?

Ho, we call thee Indian Summer,

O thou late and languid comer,

Loitering our forest aisles;

Idling with the sunshine dreamy,

As with wandering a-weary,

Chary, ever, of thy smiles.

Thou hast come to claim the glamour

Of the dear, departed Summer.

—M. D. Tolman.