CLUSTERED GRAPES by HELEN BURWELL CHAPIN

Under the rays of late September's sun,
That sicken me and satiate with heat,
Where fruits and flowers and odors oversweet
Burden the earth with weight of all things done,
When old loves end and new are not begun,
I linger in the garden with slow feet
And wait for hours that once I ran to meet.
Of new love's vigor there is now left none,
But love is like the garden now and vine
That's laden with too heavy fruit of love,
With clustered grapes too purple and too hot
That, overfull of sickening sweet wine,
Hang heavy, lush, from arbors high above,
Sink swiftly, strike and leave spilt juice to rot.

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