A blupete Poetry pick

"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.

-- William Wilfred Campbell (1860-1919)
Born at Kitchener, Campbell was known as
the poet of the Great Lakes.
He was the author of Lake Lyrics, 1889.
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2011

Peter Landry