‘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.