A PawPaw

In dusky groves, where cheerily all day long,
Mocking the nut-hatch and the cardinal,
The trim drab cat-bird trolls its fitful song,
I hear the mellow golden pawpaws fall.
… What luscious fruit! scorned as of little worth
By those who long for guavas of the South,
Figs and bananas, pining that the North
Is barren of the luxuries of the earth!
Fruit that I sought in childhood with a mouth
Eager to taste thy wild delicious juice!
What orange grown in groves of Italy,
Or what pomegranate ripened in the dews
Of Grecian isles, would I not now refuse
For the rare-flavored, racy pulp of these?