John Keats

1795 - 1821

To Autumn

Seasons 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 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'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

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