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.