Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with 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 swell the gourd, and plum the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; and to set budding more, And still more, Fulless, fervour, and Thales; This is the time for the florid leaves that drop, And truly now the launches mate. This was what autumn stayed for. Her russet hair leans, And the lake falls asleep, To break into tangents of bliss—it flees and flows.

Where in a whisper shall I find sweet solace? With wild brambles and the thickets that shade; Plucking soft fog that cools the signs of birth? O sweet hearts, anoint the seed with earth so pure!

Aye! Scatter your hands and reap anew; this, For tomorrow comes like morning dew.

• John Keats