Today was the last day of real warmth;
I was luxuriating in it.
Every year it seems harder to see summer finally go,
in the “Indian Summer” fashion. I was waiting to see
if we might have a warm spell this month,
and here it is. So, here also is the poem I had laid by,
I have strayed from silent places,
Where the days are dreaming always;
And fair summer lies a-dying,
Roses withered on her breast.
I have stolen all her beauty,
All her softness, all her sweetness;
In her robe of folden sunshine
I am drest.
I will breathe a mist about me
Lest you see my face too clearly,
Lest you follow me too boldly
I will silence every song.
Through the haze and through the silence
You will know that I am passing;
When you break the spell that holds you,
I am gone!
-Isabel Ecclestone Mackay