Classic Poem

The trailing skirts of the summer
Have swept away to the south—
A blast came down from the northland
And kissed her on the mouth.

She fled from the kiss that chilled her,
From the touch of a frosty hand;
But the work of her busy fingers
Is strewn all over the land.

Wrought she well in the sunshine.
And wrought she well in the rain;
For the corn hangs thick and heavy,
And the garners are filled with grain.

Busy was she in the orchards—
The rich fruit swings o'erhead,
While the low boughs, overladen,
Lie prone on the paths we tread.

Peaches with coats of velvet;
Apples in satin fine;
Purple grapes by the river,
Where the great coils twist and twine.

For these do we bless the summer,
So fervid, and strong, and sweet;
Autumn but touches and ripens
As he follows her flying feet.

Then sing, oh! sing her praises,
Ye singers with throats in tune;
While the fruit and corn hang heavy,
All under the harvest moon.