Autumn truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise.
Seasons 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.
Autumn carries more gold in its hand than all the other seasons.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Autumn truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence listening To silence.
Seasons 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.