Classic Poem

In spring the many-colour'd crown,
The sheafs in summer, ruddy-brown,
The autumn's twisting tendrils green,
With nectar-gushing grapes between,
Some pink, some purple, some bright gold,
Then shrivel'd olive, blue with cold,
Are all for me: for me the goat
Comes with her milk from hills remote,
And fatted lamb, and calf, pursued
By moaning mother, sheds her blood.