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,⁠10
⁠⁠For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
⁠Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
⁠Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
⁠Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
⁠⁠Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
⁠Steady thy laden head across a brook;⁠20
⁠Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
⁠⁠Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
⁠Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
⁠And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;