There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

A Drainless Shower Of Light Is Poesy: 'tis The Supreme Of Power; 'tis Might Half Slumbering On Its Own Right Arm.

You Speak Of Lord Byron And Me; There Is This Great Difference Between Us. He Describes What He Sees I Describe What I Imagine. Mine Is The Hardest Task.

O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet My Song Comes Native With The Warmth. O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet The Evening Listens.

But Let Me See Thee Stoop From Heaven On Wings That Fill The Sky With Silver Glitterings!