Is this the Indian summer of my days--
Wealth without care and love without desire?
O misty, cheerless moon of falling leaves!
Is this the fruitage promised by the spring?
O blighted clusters withering on the vine!
O promised lips of love to one who dreams
And wakens holding but the hollow air!
Let me dream on lest, dead unto my dead,
False to the true and true unto the false,
Maddened by thoughts of that which might have been,
And weary of the chains of that which is,
I slake my heart-thirst at forbidden springs.
I hear the voices of the moaning pines;
I hear the low, hushed whispers of the dead,
And one wan face looks in upon my dreams
And wounds me with her sad, imploring eyes.
The dead sun sinks beyond the misty hills;
The chill winds whistle in the leafless elms;
The cold rain patters on the fallen leaves.
Where pipes the silver-fluted whippowil?
I hear no hum of bees among the bloom;
I hear no robin cherup on the hedge:
One dumb, lone lark sits shivering in the rain.
I hear the voices of the Autumn wind;
I hear the cold rain dripping on the leaves;
I hear the moaning of the mournful pines;
I hear the hollow voices of the dead.
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