Friday's a day as'll have his trick,
The fairest or foulest day o' the wick.
Dry August and warm
Doth harvest no harm.
Put in the sickles and reap,
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long, large ranks of the corn,
Coloured and clothed as the morn,
Stand thick in the fields and deep,
For them that faint to be fed.
Swinburne.
Summer is purple, and drowsed with repletion.
Now yellow harvests wave on every field,
Now bending boughs the hoary chestnut yield,
Now loaded trees resign their annual store,
And on the ground the mellow fruitage pour.