My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves,
Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed;
I do no boast the harvesting of sheaves,
O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside.
Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride,
The dreamy air is full, and overflows
With tender memories of the summer-tide,
And mingled voices of the doves and crows.
The Poet's Calendar: 10 - October
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Poem topics: summer, tender, gold, scorpion, crimson, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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