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O CTOBER in New England,

And I not there to see

The glamour of the goldenrod,

The flame of the maple tree!

October in my own land. . . .

I know what glory fills

The mountains of New Hampshire

And Massachusetts hills.

I know what hues of opal

Rhode Island breezes fan,

And how Connecticut puts on

Colors of Hindustan.

Vermont, in robes of splendor,

Sings with the woods of Maine

Alternate hallelujahs

Of gold and crimson stain.

The armies of the asters,

Frail hosts in blue and gray,

Invade the hills of home — and I

Three thousand miles away!

I shall take down the calendar

And from the rounded year

Blot out one name, October,

The loveliest and most dear.

For I would not remember,

While she is marching by

The pomp of her stately passing,

The magic of her cry.

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