At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
William Wordsworth.
(This is only a portion of the poem, which later you should take an opportunity of reading as a whole.)
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-eaves run;