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Ode to Autumn

(1st of 3 stanzas)


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 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’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.



John Keats (1795-1821)

Picture 10904099, illustration by Rie Cramer, circa 1926, image copyright Mary Evans / Peter & Dawn Cope Collection