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CAMPBELL, Wilfred


Indian Summer

Along the line of smoky hills

The crimson forest stands,

And all the day the blue-jay calls

Throughout the autumn lands.

Now by the brook the maple leans

With all his glory spread,

And all the sumachs on the hills

Have turned their green to red.

Now by great marshes wrapt in mist,

Or past some river's mouth,

Throughout the long, still autumn day

Wild birds are flying south.