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-eves 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,

Forsummer                                                                                                                                                                                                      has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who                                                                                                                                                      hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes                                                                                           whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee                                                                                                                                                      sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy                                                                                                                                                                                                        hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

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

Drows'nbsp;                                                                                                                                                                                                        dwith the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares                                                                                                                                                      the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And                                                                                           sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady&                                                                                                                                                      thy laden head across a brook;

Orby                                                                                                                                                                                                        a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where

Orby                                                                                                                                                                                                        are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

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

While                                                                                                                                                                                                        barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And                                                                                                                                                      touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then                                                                                           in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or                                                                                                                                                      sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And                                                                                                                                                                                                        full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      sing; and now with treble soft

The                                                                                                                                                                                                        red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And                                                                                                                                                      gathering swallows twitter in the skies.