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-eaves run—
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
  And fill all fruit with...

The Warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
            And the year
On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
            Is lying.
  Come, months, come away,
  From...