Season of            m  i  s  t  s            and mellow            f r u i t f u l n e s s,

Close            b o s o m - f r i e nd            of the maturing            s u n;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the            v  i  n  e  s            that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with            a  p  p  l  e  s            the moss'd            c  o  t  t  a  g  e  -  t  r  e  e  s,

And fill all            f  r  u  i  t            with ripeness to the core;

To swell the             gourd,            and plump the             h  a  z  e  l   s  h  e  l  l  s            

With a sweet             kernel;             to set budding more,

And still more, later             f  l  o  w  e  r  s             for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For             summer            has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy            s t o r e?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary             f l o o r,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing             w  i  n  d;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of             p  o  p  p  i  e  s,            while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined             f  l  o  w  e  r  s:

And sometimes like a            g l e a n e r            thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a             b  r  o  o  k;            

Or by a cyder-press, with patient             l o o k,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the             s  o  n  g  s            of spring? Ay, Where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy             music             too,—

While barred            c  l  o  u  d  s            bloom the soft-dying            d a y,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful             c  h  o  i  r            the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows,             b  o  r  n  e            aloft

            w i n d            lives or dies;

And full-grown            l a m b s            loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-c  r  i  c  k  e  t  s            sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering            s  w  a  l  l  o  w  s            twitter in the skies.