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
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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;
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