Keat's Poetry: TO AUTUMN#1


 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.


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