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now September! in whose languid veins
 * The wine of summer, slow-distilling, flows;

The light and glory fade—the laughter wanes.
 * But earth more lovely grows.

O rare September! has it all been said—
 * The wistful hours, the soft, reluctant days,

When Nature seems to pause with arms outspread
 * And heart that yearns both ways?

Upon the mellowed harp-strings of the vine
 * The fitful winds their soft forebodings urge,

And with the liquid murmurs of the pine
 * In plaintive sweetness merge.

The mountains, veiled in gold and amethyst,
 * Their once familiar outlines scarcely show;

Across the uplands, faint with purple mist,
 * The oaks and maples glow.

Those gathering mists the coming change would hide,
 * But in our hearts already sounds the knell.

O, never surges love in such a tide
 * As when we say farewell!