Meadows wtih vœx.

Absen np

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𝐈. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with her 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.

𝐈𝐈. 𝖶𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝖺𝗆𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾? 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗈𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍-𝗅𝗂𝖿𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽; 𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗉'𝖽 𝖿𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉, 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗐𝗌'𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗌𝗐𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉. 𝖲𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗄; 𝗈𝗋 𝖻𝗒 𝖺 𝖼𝗒𝖽𝖾𝗋-𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄, 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗈𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thous hast thy music too, — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, and touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn. Among the river sallows, borne aloft. And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft. The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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