I

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 moss'd cottage-trees,

      And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

            To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel 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-brimm'd their clammy cells.