The long meadows grew
sunshine early autumn gold
melted gently with the breeze,
and the roads sunk and sang
in quiet, languid drowsiness.
And the Adirondacks,
the Green Mountains,
and the gleaming lake,
again in the shades of blue,
wove the horizons as new,
laced in their timeless clasp
and vows of love to last—
one another each would woo.
And there on the way below
the canopy of colored trees
on the road quaint and thin—
a gossamer of Summer Indian
made to catch and play and plunk
light’s beams on its single string,
a random beauty guardant smile
there strummed and larked about,
splashing into eyes bewitching art,
its ancient spell—Artemisian charm,
cast to remember that September by—
spurring its rider-preys into poem’s sounds.
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