Season

of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

C       o       n       s       p       i       r       i       n       g        with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To        b       e       n       d        with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And        f       i       l       l        all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To        s       w       e       l       l the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to        s       e       t budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has        o'       e       r       b       r       i       m       m'       d        their clammy cells.

Who

hath not        s       e       e       n        thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may        f       i       n       d       

Thee        s       i       t       t       i       n       g careless on a granary floor,

       

Thy hair        s       o       f       t       -       l       i       f       t       e       d        by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow        s       o       u       n       d        asleep,

D       r       o       w       s       'd        with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

S       p       a       r       e       s        the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes        l       i       k       e        a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head        a       c       r       o       s       s        a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where

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        t       o       u       c       h        the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats        m       o       u       r       n       

Among the river        s       a       l       l       o       w       s       , borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind        l       i       v       e       s        or        d       i       e       s       ;

And full-grown lambs loud        b       l       e       a       t        from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets        s       i       n       g       ; and now with treble soft

The red-breast        w       h       i       s       t       l       e       s        from a garden-croft;

And        g       a       t       h       e       r       i       n       g        swallows twitter in the skies.