"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,   

      For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.  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 touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue..." 

 John Keats, 22nd of September 1819