Downy gray, golden-tinged; and to glades
Where the pear blossom thickens the spray
In a night, like the snow-packed storm;
Pear, apple, almond, plum;
Not wintry now; pushing warm.
And she touched them with finger and thumb,
As the vine hook closes; she smiled,
Recounting again and again,
Corn, wine, fruit, oil! like a child,
With the meaning known to men.