These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a second look.
These are the days when skies put on,
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the bee
Almost thy plausability
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the alered air,
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze.
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
Loving Indian Summer!!
"Indian Summer" by the one and only, Emily Dickinson