Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with them how to load and bless. With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, With a sweet kernel; @amourels nto set budding more, and still more, later flowers for the bees, @swanlifke. Untill they think warm days will never cease, for summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.