What You Will.

I         When the season was dry and the sun was hot         And the hornet sucked gaunt on the apricot,         And the ripe peach dropped to its seed a-rot,             With a lean red wasp that stung and clung;         When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden-plot,         More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,             A weariness weighed on the tongue,         That the drought of the season begot.         II         When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst         Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,         And the round gold pippins, the summer had nursed,             In the yellowing leaves o' the orchards hung;         When the reapers, their lips with whistling pursed,         To their sun-tanned brows in the corn were immersed,             A lightness came over the tongue,         And one sung as much as one durst.         III         When the skies of December gray dripped and dripped,         And icicles eaves of the big barn tipped,         And loud hens flew over the snow or slipped,             And the north wind hooted and bit and stung,         And the ears of the milkmaid, Miriam, nipped,         And the chappy cheeks of the farm boy whipped,             A goddess unloosened the tongue,         And one's mouth with wild honey was lipped.