Oct. 19th, 2012

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,
Who had conspired with him at last to bless
The ground with fruit: thy labour is undone!

The apples that had bent mossed cottage trees,
And, full of ripeness, fell about the floor;
The swollen gourds; the broken hazel shells,
With sweetest kernels are, alas! no more.
The very leaves that leaped the slightest breeze
To be thy mantle one no longer sees:
For blowers blasted everything to hell!
 

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January 2013

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