A purple haze rests on the hills
That dent the long horizon's rim.
No breath of wind the rich air thrills. 
Witch-hazel with her fragrance fills
The swamp's recesses dim.
At dawn the mists with hazy fold
Veil hillside, field and plain;
At night the sunset's wealth of gold,
From zenith to horizon rolled,
Reflected yet again,
Shines forth anew from dying leaves;
And, slanting o'er October fields,
Touches with mellow light the sheaves,
And golden fruit the harvest yields.
Winthrop Packard