New Hampshire The trees are about to harvest the best, And somewhere far lies the village running down, A place to be held to the howling sound Of its laughter through the leaves of the fall.

And before the cold can come into play, That wracks each tree in its place, The skaters, the singers’ light provide, Through all these woods I keep over the stone.

Under every freedom, still closer to earth; With swells and swims near the bend, Through every twist over the sound, Where every shadow holds its fair ground.

• Robert Frost