Autumn is in the air, and for the past few days we've been led to believe it is already upon us.
Cool mist-filled mornings, and even cooler, crisp-laden nights.
The trees are beginning their changing of color, yellows, oranges, and reds.
The songbirds now busily returning to their winter homes.
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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
To Autumn : John Keats 1795-1821
