Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A

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

When I Have Fears That I May Ceace To Be, Before My Pen Has Gleaned My Teaming Brain".

And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous Eyes.

For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.

Asleep In Lap Of Legends Old.