I Have Met With Women Whom I

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

No Sooner Had I Stepp'd Into These Pleasures Than I Began To Think Of Rhymes And Measures: The Air That Floated By Me Seem'd To Say 'write! Thou Wilt Never Have A Better Day.

You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be More Of An Artist, And Load Every Rift Of Your Subject With Ore.

What Shocks The Virtuous Philosopher, Delights The Chameleon Poet.

Fade Far Away, Dissolve, And Quite Forget.