The Painter by Thomas Gordon Hake

I: ‘Summer has done her work,' the painter cries, / And saunters down his garden by the shore. / ‘The fig is cracked and dry; upon it lies, / In crystals, the sweet oozing of its core. / The peach melts in its dusk and yellow bloom, / Grapes cluster to the earth in diadems / Of dripping purple; from their slender stems, / 'Mid paler leaves, the dark-green citrons loom.

II: ‘Summer has done her work; she, lingering, sees / Her shady places glare: yet cooler grow / The breezes as they stir the sunny trees / Whose shaking twigs their ruby berries sow. / Ripe is the fairy-grass, we breathe its seeds, / But, hanging o'er the rocks that belt the shore, / Safe from the sea, above its bustling roar, / Here ripen, still, the blossom-swinging weeds.