The full ripe year, these maple hills...

The full ripe year, these maple hills . . . . . . . The pure October weather fills Earth's veins so full of glowing crimson That every leaf is ablush, and thrills.

An expectation holds the days, And angel sunbeams throng the ways; The luminous skies grow close and tender, And over all is a brooding haze.

'Tis summer's apotheosis In flame of color, burning kiss, As dew dies in the arms of sunlight— A world of beauty dissolved in bliss.