"I don't see the use of such hot weather now;
'Twill dry up the fruit, the grapes on the vine—
Unless there's a change, they will yield us no wine."
And thus the old pessimist grumbles away
The brightness and joy of the long summer day.
He teases the evening, he teases the morn,
Until the fair Goddess of Autumn is born.
She comes heavy-laden with fruit from the vine,
Sweet clusters that drip with the mellowest wine;
And rosy-cheeked fruit from the old apple-tree,