When that I was a tiny grub,
And peevish and inclined to blub,
Mother, my Queen,
My infant grief you would assuage
With promise of the ripe greengage
And purple sheen
Of luscious plums,
"When Autumn comes."
The Autumn days are flying fast;
Across the bleak skies overcast
Scurries the wind;
Where are those plums of purple hue,
Mother? I only wish that you
Had disciplined
My pampered youth
To face the truth.
The time for wasps is nearly done,
And what is life without the sun,
Mother, my Queen?
Dull stupor numbs your royal head;
Torpid my sisters lie--or dead;
Come, let me lean
Back on my sting
And end the thing.
* * * * *