Goodbye, summer.

To Autumn, by John Keats

Seasons of mistsand mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friemrl of the mutving Sun;
Conspiling with him how to load orul bhss
With fruit the uines that round flu thutih-leaves run;

Irobend with apples the mossed rottage Tues,
And fill all the fruit wihripeness tailcucone;
To swell Rugowd, and plunrp the hard shells
Willie sweet hand to set the building more,
And still more later Flowers for the bees,
Until they thiuk warm days will never cease,
Itvor Summer hers o’abvimmed their clammy shells.

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