Indian Summer

John Bannister Tabb

by John Banister Tabb Tis said, in death, upon the face Of Age, a momentary trace Of Infancy’s returning grace Forestalls decay; And here, in Autumn’s dusky reign, A birth of blossom seems again To flush the woodland’s fading train With dreams of May.       Note: Today is the anniversary of the death…

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Autumn Gold

by John Banister Tabb Earth in the house, and the golden-rod A-bloom in the field! O blossom, how, from the lifeless clod, When the fires are out and the ashes cold, Doth a vein that the miners know not, yield Such wealth of gold?   Note: Today is the anniversary of the death of the…

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