The earth, confused, dislodged from standard course;
Implicitly, all feel the growing touch
Of change. Abide each spirit that divorce;
Abides the soul which sight of glory struck
And apprehends the deprivation’s nudge.
A basket, vacant, hails the plunging fruit,
The rip’ning juice ensnared from months of drudge.
Yet fawning orchard’s dream, excitement, moot,
For, broke, the trance disowning winter’s due commute!