Olga Bergholz
Indian Summer

There's a season alight with its own, strange shimmer
Of misted sun, most tenderly warm.
People call it
                    Indian summer
And it rivals the spring itself in charm.

Already the flying gossamer's clinging
Lightly, warily round the face...
How full is the tone of the late birds' singing!
How fierce and festive the flower-beds blaze!

The great rains have long since passed in thunder,
The dark, silent field has yielded its
More often a glance strikes a spark of wonder
More seldom, but blacker the jealous fits fall.

O generous wisdom of Indian summer,
I welcome you gratefully, but: Do you hear,
My lost love, where are you? Where are you? Come, answer!
But the woods have grown silent, the stars more austere...

You see now—the season of stardust is over.
I suppose it is time that we parted — and yet
It is only just now I've begun to discover
How to love and to cherish, forgive — and forget.

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* In Russian Indian summer is called "Woman's summer".

Translated by Avril Pyman