Ode to Autumn
John Keats
Season of mists 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 mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd,and plump the bazel shells,
With a sweet kernel;to set budding more,
And still more,later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells.
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