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.