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"Seasons 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." by John Keats

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"The Indian Summer the dead Summers soul." by Mary Clemmer