My harvest home is ended; and I spy
September drawing nigh
With the first thought of Autumn in her eye,
And the first sigh
Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.
(September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit.)
September.
Unload me, brother. I have brought a few
Plums and these pears for you,
A dozen kinds of apples, one or two