The summer days have gone their ways, to join the days of summers
olden; the eager air is making bare the trees, the leaves are red and
golden; the flowers that bloomed are now entombed, the morn is chill,
the night is dreary; and I confront the same old stunt that all my life
has made me weary. Hard by yon grove our heating stove is standing red
and fierce and rusty; and I must black its front and back, and get
myself all scratched and dusty. And I must pack it on my back, about a
mile, up to our shanty, and work with wire and pipes and fire, the
while I quote warm things from Dante.