When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst
Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,
And the round, ripe pippins, that summer had nursed,
In the yellowing leaves o' the orchard hung:
When the farmer, his lips with whistling pursed,
To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed,
Then something was said or was sung,
And I remembered as much as I durst.