AnneTannes Tuin

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.

John Keats, 1795-1825
(Fragment uit ‘to Autumn‘, een gedicht dat werd geschreven in 1819 en gepubliceerd in 1820.)

De foto bij dit gedicht is van Jonas en valt onder een Creative Commons Licentie.