Poetry

Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness, Clothes bosom friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring whim, him how to load and bless, With fruit the vines that round the thatch eaves run, To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core, To swall the gourd, and plump the hazel shells, To set budding more, and still more, Later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has overbrimmed their clammy cells.