I want a brighter word than bright
was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
The air is all softness.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.