And the fruits of the garden, our baskets unfold,
The raspberry bowl-shap’d—the jet tiny cone
Or the blackberry, pluck’d from the thickets are strown,
All grace the grass-table—our cups mantle free
With the dark purple coffee, and light amber tea,
Wood, water, and bank tongue the laugh, and the jest,
And the goddess or mirth reigns supreme in each breast.
The sunset is slanting—a pyramid bright
Is traced on the waters, in spangles of light;
A grey blending glimmer then steals like a pall;