Here is one of my favorite poets:

To Autumn      

　　Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

　　Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,

　　Conspiring with him how to load and bless

　　With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

　　To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

　　And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

　　To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

　　With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

　　And still more, later flowers for the bees,

　　Until they think warm days will never cease,

　　For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

                                                                        by John Keats J.

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