140 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



The purple hibiscus is shrivelled and withered, 



And languid lolls its furry tongue : 

 The burning pomegranates are ripe to be gathered ; 



The grilli their last farewell have sung ; 



The fading oleander is showing 



Its last rose-clusters over the wall, 

 And the tubes of the trumpet-flower are strewing 



The gravel-walks as they loosen and fall ; 



The crocketed spire of the hollyhock towers, 

 For the sighing breeze to rock and swing ; 



On its top is the last of its bell-like flowers, 

 For the wandering bee its knell to ring. 



In their earthen vases the lemons yellow, 

 The sun-drunk grapes grow lucent and thin, 



The pears on the sunny espalier mellow, 

 And the fat figs swell in their purple skin ; 



The petals have dropped from the spicy carnation ; 



And the heartless dahlia, formal and proud, 

 Like a worldly lady of lofty station, 



Loveless stares at the humble crowd. 



And the sunflower, too, looks boldly around her ; 



While the belladonna, so wickedly fair, 

 Shorn of the purple flowers that crowned her, 



Is telling her Borgian beads in despair. 



See ! by the fountain that softly bubbles, 



Spilling its rain in the lichened vase, 

 Summer pauses ! her tender troubles 



Shadowing over her pensive face. 



