John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to read more

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.

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven;
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven;
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings.

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And though to leave her far away behind;
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To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And though to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly:
She is so constant to me, and so kind.