Poem Lake | Page 3 | The Greatest Poems of All Time

Indian Summer No more the battle or the chase The phantom tribes pursue, But each in its accustomed place The Autumn hails anew: And still from solemn councils set On every hill and plain, The smoke of many a calumet Ascends to heaven again. Poet: John Banister Tabb	“’T is the last rose of summer” From “Irish Melodies” ’T IS the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud, is nigh To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! ... Poet: Thomas Moore	As Sleigh Bells seem in summer As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show — So fairy — so fictitious The individuals do Repealed from observation — A Party that we knew — More distant in an instant Than Dawn... Poet:	As Summer into Autumn slips As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not ... Poet:
Consulting summer's clock, Consulting summer's clock, But half the hours remain. I ascertain it with a shock — I shall not look again. The second half of joy Is shorter than the first. The truth I do not dare to know I... Poet:	Further in Summer than the Birds Further in Summer than the Birds - Pathetic from the Grass - A minor Nation celebrates It's unobtrusive Mass. No Ordinance be seen - So gradual the Grace A gentle Custom it becomes - ... Poet:	Her final Summer was it — Her final Summer was it — And yet We guessed it not — If tenderer industriousness Pervaded Her, We thought A further force of life Developed from within — When Death lit all the shortness up ... Poet:	How know it from a Summer's Day? How know it from a Summer's Day? Its Fervors are as firm — And nothing in the Countenance But scintillates the same — Yet Birds examine it and flee — And Vans without a name Inspect the Admonition ... Poet:
I know a place where Summer strives I know a place where Summer strives With such a practised Frost — She — each year — leads her Daisies back — Recording briefly — "Lost" — But when the South Wind stirs the Pools And struggles in the lanes —... Poet:	Indian Summer (Botta) O sweet, sad autumn of the waning year, Though in thy bowers the roses all lie dead, And from thy woods the song of birds has fled, And winter, stern and cold, is hovering near; ... Poet: