A thirsty fox beheld some grapes
That dangled from a vine.
“How good!” said he. “They’re just for me!
They look superbly fine!”
Time after time he leapt to reach
The hanging purple fruit.
But vain to try! They swung too high
For his lunging jaws to loot.
But after he had puffed and strained
And could not touch the prize,
With tail bent low he had to go
While longing filled his eyes.
“Oh, well,” he sniffed, “there’s nothing lost!
The grapes, I’m sure, are sour!”
Thus some berate the things that fate
Has put beyond their power.
