33 6 We tfSartren's 



'Twas the last week the swallow would remain. 



How jealously I watched his circling play ! 



A few brief hours and he would dart away, 

 No more to turn upon himself again. 



A more tender melancholy pervades the com- 

 panion sonnet to " Autumn " : 



The crush of leaves is heard beneath his feet, 

 Mixt, as he onward goes, with softer sound, 

 As though his heel were sinking into snows. 

 Full soon a sadder landscape opens round, 

 With, here and there, a latter-flowering rose, 

 Child of the summer hours, though blooming here 

 Far down the vista of the fading year. 



The sounds of latter autumn, which we have 

 all listened to from some still upland, are articu- 

 late in " An Autumn Landscape," by Alfred 

 Billings Street : 



Far sounds melt mellow on the ear ; the bark 

 The bleat the tinkle whistle blast of horn 

 The rattle of the wagon-wheel the low 

 The fowler's shot the twitter of the bird. 



Nowhere in American poetry, however, are the 

 lights and shadows of Indian summer drawn with 

 a truer touch than by Lowell and Read. Thus 

 the former's " An Indian Summer Reverie " : 



Far distant sounds the hidden chickadee 



Close at my side ; far distant sound the leaves ; 

 The fields seem fields of dream. . . . 



