of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

                                                                                                                                                                                              Close        b       o       s       o       m       -       f       r       i       e       n       d        of the maturing sun;

                                                                                                                                                                                              Conspiring with        h       i       m        how to load and bless

                                                                                                                                                                                              With fruit the vines that round the        t       h       a       t       c       h       -       e       v       e       s        run;

                                                                                                                                                                                              To bend with a       p       p       l       e       s the moss'd cottage-trees,

                                                                                                                                                                                              And fill all fruit with        r       i       p       e       n       e       s       s        to the core;

                                                                                                                                                                                              To swell the gourd, and plump the        h       a       z       e       l        s       h       e       l       l       s       

                                                                                                                                                                                              With a sweet        k       e       r       n       e       l       ; to set budding more,

                                                                                                                                                                                              And still more, later flowers for the        b       e       e       s       ,

                                                                                                                                                                                              Until they think warm days will never        c       e       a       s       e       ,

                                                                                                                                                                                              For summer has        o'       e       r       b       r       i       m       m       'd        their clammy cells.

hath not seen thee oft amid thy        s       t       o       r       e       ?

Sometimes        w       h       o       e       v       e       r        seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting        c       a       r       e       l       es       s        on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the        w       i       n       n       o       w       i       n       g        wind;

Or on a half-reap'd        f       u       r       r       o       w        sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of        p       o       p       p       i       e       s       , while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a        g       l       e       a       n       e       r        thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a        b       r       o       o       k       ;

Or by a        c       y       d       e       r       -       p       r       e       s       s       , with patient look,

Thou watchest the        l       a       s       t        oozings hours by hours.

                                                                                                                                                                                              are the songs of spring? Ay,        W       h       e       r       e        are they?

                                                                                                                                                                                              Think not of them, thou hast thy        m       u       s       i       c        too,—

                                                                                                                                                                                              While barred clouds        b       l       o       o       m        the soft-dying day,

                                                                                                                                                                                              And touch the stubble-plains with        r       o       s       y        hue;

                                                                                                                                                                                              Then in a wailful        c       h       o       i       r        the small gnats mourn

                                                                                                                                                                                              Among the river        s       a       l       l       o       w       s       , borne aloft

                                                                                                                                                                                              Or sinking as the        l       i       g       h       t        wind lives or dies;

                                                                                                                                                                                              And full-grown        l       a       m       b       s        loud bleat from hilly bourn;

                                                                                                                                                                                              Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble        s       o       f       t       

                                                                                                                                                                                              The red-breast        w       h       i       s       t       l       e       s        from a garden-croft;

                                                                                                                                                                                              And gathering        s       w       a       l       l       o       w       s        twitter in the skies.