Indian Summer

NEW ENGLAND is a savage still at heart,
hiding in every empty cellar-hole,
in ambush at the edge of every field,
lurking behind each granite-ridden knoll.
The gaudy violence of an autumn day
prevails against white house and whiter steeple:
the scarlet leaves, like feathered arrows flying,
blow in the wind above an alien people.
This is a land unconquered and aloof,
secret and harsh and ribbed with stubborn stone.
As watchful as an Indian warrior waiting,
it keeps an ancient silence of its own.