GRAPES.

GRAPES.
298.10

Conserve of honey in deep purple glaze
Of the red-ripened glory of October days,
Dow of the fairies in globes of delight,
With the freshness of frost in their tang and their bite.
The Concord, Catawba, the sweet Isabel,
Oh, the grapes of October, what beauty they spell.

Clustered and cloistered in arbors of dream,
In the vines fit for festal of Bacchus they gleam,
The white and the red and the purple and pink,
The cups of dream-dew where the fairy lips drink;
The fruit of the bee and the grace of the bower,
Oh, the grapes of October, how sweet In their flower!

Concord, Catawba, the queen of the vine,
In the amber of autumn they ripen and shine,
Conserve of honey and globules of dew
That drank of time’s sweetness the whole summer through.
Away to the arbor, the trellis, the bough,
Where the grapes of October are calling me now