A soft veil dims the tender skies, br And half conceals from pensive eyes br The bronzing tokens of the fall; br A calmness broods upon the hills, br And summer's parting dream distills br A charm of silence over all. br br The stacks of corn, in brown array, br Stand waiting through the placid day, br Like tattered wigwams on the plain; br The tribes that find a shelter there br Are phantom peoples, forms of air, br And ghosts of vanished joy and pain. br br At evening when the crimson crest br Of sunset passes down the West, br I hear the whispering host returning; br On far-off fields, by elm and oak, br I see the lights, I smell the smoke,-- br The Camp-fires of the Past are burning.