Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!

They swayed about upon a rocking horse, And thought it Pegasus.

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.

A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power; 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.