EQUINOCTIAL.ByMRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.TheSun of Life has crossed the line;The summer-shine of lengthened lightFaded and failed,—till, where I stand,’Tis equal Day and equal Night.One after one, as dwindling hours,Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,And soon may barely leave the gleamThat coldly scores a winter’s day.I am not young, I am not old;The flush of morn, the sunset calm,Paling, and deepening, each to each,Meet midway with a solemn charm.One side I see the summer fields,Not yet disrobed of all their green;While westerly, along the hills,Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.Ah, middle-point, where cloud and stormMake battle-ground of this my life!Where, even-matched, the Night and DayWage round me their September strife!I bow me to the threatening gale:I know when that is overpast,Among the peaceful harvest-days,An Indian-summer comes at last.
EQUINOCTIAL.ByMRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.
TheSun of Life has crossed the line;The summer-shine of lengthened lightFaded and failed,—till, where I stand,’Tis equal Day and equal Night.One after one, as dwindling hours,Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,And soon may barely leave the gleamThat coldly scores a winter’s day.I am not young, I am not old;The flush of morn, the sunset calm,Paling, and deepening, each to each,Meet midway with a solemn charm.One side I see the summer fields,Not yet disrobed of all their green;While westerly, along the hills,Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.Ah, middle-point, where cloud and stormMake battle-ground of this my life!Where, even-matched, the Night and DayWage round me their September strife!I bow me to the threatening gale:I know when that is overpast,Among the peaceful harvest-days,An Indian-summer comes at last.
TheSun of Life has crossed the line;The summer-shine of lengthened lightFaded and failed,—till, where I stand,’Tis equal Day and equal Night.One after one, as dwindling hours,Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,And soon may barely leave the gleamThat coldly scores a winter’s day.I am not young, I am not old;The flush of morn, the sunset calm,Paling, and deepening, each to each,Meet midway with a solemn charm.One side I see the summer fields,Not yet disrobed of all their green;While westerly, along the hills,Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.Ah, middle-point, where cloud and stormMake battle-ground of this my life!Where, even-matched, the Night and DayWage round me their September strife!I bow me to the threatening gale:I know when that is overpast,Among the peaceful harvest-days,An Indian-summer comes at last.
TheSun of Life has crossed the line;The summer-shine of lengthened lightFaded and failed,—till, where I stand,’Tis equal Day and equal Night.
TheSun of Life has crossed the line;
The summer-shine of lengthened light
Faded and failed,—till, where I stand,
’Tis equal Day and equal Night.
One after one, as dwindling hours,Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,And soon may barely leave the gleamThat coldly scores a winter’s day.
One after one, as dwindling hours,
Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away,
And soon may barely leave the gleam
That coldly scores a winter’s day.
I am not young, I am not old;The flush of morn, the sunset calm,Paling, and deepening, each to each,Meet midway with a solemn charm.
I am not young, I am not old;
The flush of morn, the sunset calm,
Paling, and deepening, each to each,
Meet midway with a solemn charm.
One side I see the summer fields,Not yet disrobed of all their green;While westerly, along the hills,Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.
One side I see the summer fields,
Not yet disrobed of all their green;
While westerly, along the hills,
Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.
Ah, middle-point, where cloud and stormMake battle-ground of this my life!Where, even-matched, the Night and DayWage round me their September strife!
Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm
Make battle-ground of this my life!
Where, even-matched, the Night and Day
Wage round me their September strife!
I bow me to the threatening gale:I know when that is overpast,Among the peaceful harvest-days,An Indian-summer comes at last.
I bow me to the threatening gale:
I know when that is overpast,
Among the peaceful harvest-days,
An Indian-summer comes at last.