Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.