When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.
What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.