Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bossom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With flowers the vines that round the urn's edge run.
And still appear more later flowers for the bees
Until they think warm days will never cease.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music, too,
That chimes a fruitfulness of rosy hue
And in the garden with all the twined flowers
It holds its tune for hours by hours.
Conceived by Keats
Corrupted by Candy