John Keats

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

And shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

And shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And though to leave her far away behind;
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To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And though to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly:
She is so constant to me, and so kind.

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
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Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to read more

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.