It fades when the chill of the night-time is past.
Before the sun rises, while hardly ’tis light,
He feels of the fruit and takes a sly bite;
He has a fine taste,
Though a great deal he’ll waste,
Then off he will go in very great haste.
Now, who do you think this old fellow may be,
The bright, sparkling work of whose fingers we see?
All winter he’ll stay,
What more shall I say?