Equinoctial. By Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney
The Sun 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 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.
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 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.