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.