Sunday, 27 September 2009

Ode to Autumn by John Keats


Season of mists and mellow fruitfullness
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, to 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.

1 comment:

peevish said...

Ooh, lovely! The photos are wonderful.
Autumn is such a melancholy time, isn't it?