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SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! a
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;' Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch
b eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, c And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;
d To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
& With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
a 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)
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
d Spares the next swath and all its twined
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
od od dodoro
ODE ON MELANCHOLY.
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ;
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veild Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose stren
uous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.
Souls of poets dead and gone,
I have heard that on a day