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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.

Autumn is the harvest of greedy death.

The lands are lit with all the autumn blaze of golden-rod, and everywhere the purple asters nod and bend and wave and flit.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;-- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning;-- Cold winter gives warning.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;-- Old age, begin sighing!

Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.

The summer's throbbing chant is done And mute the choral antiphon; The birds have left the shivering pines To flit among the trellised vines, Or fan the air with scented plumes Amid the love-sick orange blooms, And thou art here alone--alone-- Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.

Third act of the eternal play! In poster-like emblazonries "Autumn once more begins today"-- 'Tis written all across the trees In yellow like Chinese.

When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.

As fall the light autumnal leaves, one still the other following, till the bough strews all its honors.