Nelson Sun.

How like his apples is the seasoned sun!
The bud-beams of the Spring have scarce begun
To blossom when they break upon the air
In clustering fruits, yet bitter—so beware!

His form is grown bv Summer but his flesh
Is hard and harsh and shiny—nothing fresh
Save size, a brazen swelling lacking art
You understand—and glaringly upstart.
Comes Autumn. Oh the softening, the scenting,
The blooming on the breeze, the mellow tinting,
The velvet on the skin of slow, rich heat—
For suddenly the sun is round and sweet.

By Winter there's a strange decrease in size,
A turning brown in patches, no surprise
To find the core is rotten, pitted, done
And squelchy underfoot—a shrivelled sun.

For, like his apples is our seasoned lord ….
But Autumn's here! The sweet'ning is abroad
And ye may seek some well loved garden seat
And catch the falling sun-beams ripe to eat!

—A.C.