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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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