Citron, pomegranate, apricot, and peach;
Flutter of apple-blows, whiter than the snow:
Filling the silence with their leafy speech,
Budding and blossoming down row after row.
Breaths of blown spices which the meadows yield,
From blossoms broad-petaled, starry buds and small,
Gold of the hill-side, purple of the field,
Waft to my nostrils your fragrance, one and all.
Birds in the tree-tops, birds that fill the air,
Trilling, piping, singing, in your merry moods:
Gold wing and brown wing flitting here and there,
To the coo and chirrup of your downy broods.
What grace has summer better that can suit?
What gift can autumn bring us more to please?
Red of blown roses, mellow tints of fruit,
Never can be fairer, sweeter than are these.
