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SEPTEMBER on New Hampshire's hills!
A nameless exultation thrills
The golden valleys at her breath;
And leaves that redden to their death
Stir at what sweet voice fills
The sunlit silence; white clouds blow
From dawn-prickt mountains to the glow
Of folded west; her blue skies fall
In frosty splendor over all.
Her light robes rustle thro' the woods
Of Bearcamp's river-solitudes;
Her cool breath puffs the foam that falls
In white wreaths down the rocky walls :
Her unseen presence broods
O'er hill and island, lake and shore;
And sharp and seam'd Chocorua,
That fronts the sunset valleys wide,
With newer grace is glorified.
What charm in lake and sky for us,
In summer's temples ruinous
Of fern and flower; the pine's low moan;
The shy quail's hidden monotone;
In gray cloud luminous
Across far moonlit vistas drawn;
The fading star, the flushing dawn,
The morning mists that slowly part,
The waking throb of nature's heart!
O Hampshire hills, September days!
O burning light thro' rifted haze
From peak to cloud, from lake to sky,
O autumn wind of minstrelsy,
We walk thro' dreamland ways
Till the last night of dreams; till wanes
The moon's barr'd light thro' westward panes,
And clear October's morning star
Gleams in the eye of dawn afar.
ED.
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