the
midday sun
They hold forever in their hearts `` the consecration and the poet 's dream '' ; and , undimmed by disillusionment , the mirage of youthful love hovers over each solitary path , lighting the twilight of age , the night of death and melting at last into the dawn of heaven 's unending day . -LSB- Illustration -RSB- All day the land had lain dreamily under an enchantment soon to be broken by the rude counter-spells of the coming winter . A frost so light that it was hardly more than a cold dew had rested that morning on the early chrysanthemums and late roses ; but the wind that shook the leaves from the crimson maples was a south wind ; the midday sun held the tropic warmth of August , and over the brightening hills lay a tender , purple haze . Summer was dead , but its gentle ghost had come back to the earth , and it was Indian summer , the season that has no name or place in any calendar but the poet 's . The sun had set , and the mist that veiled the horizon had caught its last rays , holding the light lingeringly , fondly , in its folds and spreading it far to the north and south in a soft splendor of color that no other season can show . Not pink , not crimson , but such a color as an artist might make if he crushed together on his palette the rose of summer and the leaf of autumn .