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              John Keats

photo by Dollhouse

photo by Dollhouse

Song of the English

The wrecks dissolve above us

their dust drops down from afar

Down to the dark, to the utter dark

where the blind white sea snakes are

Heath Robinson

Heath Robinson