Thomas Buchanan Read (1822–1872)

IT is the season when the light of dreams

Around the year in golden glory lies;—

The heavens are full of floating mysteries,

And down the lake the veiléd splendor beams.

Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,

Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,

While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance.

The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,

Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake.

Here the frail maples and the faithful firs

By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake

Skirts the low pool; and starred with open burrs

The chestnut stands. But when the north-wind stirs,

How like an arméd host the summoned scene shall wake!