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-brimmed their clammy cells.
Keats, Ode to Autumn
(2) The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,