The Summer* mocked the ruddy apple-tree,
And treated fruit and leaf with raillery:—
“As for the posy that in Spring of late
Thou barest on thy breast intoxicate,
With just a blush remembered in its bloom,
And branches yielding exquisite perfume,
How didst thou find a purchaser to buy,
And do thy marketing so readily?
Those emeralds and rubies who bestowed
On thee that bendest underneath the load?
Sooth! thou hast bartered blossom for the grace
Of colour wherewithal to deck thy face,
* But brought me to despair who cannot see
Thy blossoms for thy flaunting bravery.”
Sweet Spring, my charmer! whither hast thou fled,
And left the glories of the garden dead?
Howbeit Autumn hath a scent of thine,
And I will drink to thee in new-made wine;
Though thou art sallow I will praise thee yet,
And deck thee like Hurmuzd's own coronet,
For now my mart is brisk. Art thou to see,
When I am dead and gone, no trace of me?*