Tarry not to tell All the fruits that cumber, Husk and rind and shell, Acres without number, Now is time for slumber. Let the bough be shaken. Let the cluster fall And the best be taken Till the pile is tall. Still it is not all. Those the cattle trample Leave beneath the tree, Amber-bruised, but ample For the laggard bee, Others such as he. Tally not the sum. Sharper air is reaping All that lingers. Come, Make an end of heaping. Now is time for sleeping. |