The Magic Maker

Where the old Danbury Turnpike branches off From the Valley Road to cross our meadow stream, There is a shallow where the river sings Slipping under the bridge where willows lean From crumbling banks. There on a spell-bound day, Through the blue hazy doorway of the hills October with her mystic pomp comes by. As children watch a painter at his work In awe until they win his slow regard, The smile of those who dream and understand, We linger on entranced by glowing earth, The splendor of the blazoned woods all still, The pattern of the everlasting hours.... The lone Designer of Indian Summer smiles.