The ripe fields are scattered in eddies of gold
On the verge of the forest that’s kindling apace;
And the orchards that dapple the wide-spreading wold,
Through their loopholes of leaves — as we pause to behold —
Flash their beautiful, festival lamps in our face.
And the amber, coned pear, with the peaches flushed ball,
And the sunny-cheeked apple that’s crimsoned all o’er
Blends with the pleiads of grapes that in purple showers fall
Over many a green-muffled trellis and wall,
With a thousand bright fancies and dreams at their core.