Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf;
When all the hills with woolly seed are white,
When lightning fires and gleams do meet from far the sight;
When the fair apple, flushed as even sky,
Doth bend the tree unto the fertile ground,
When juicy pears and berries of black dye
Do dance in air and call the eye around:
Then, be the even foul or be it fair,
Methinks my heart's delight is stained with some care.
Chatterton.