Today, as Writer's Almanac has informed me, is the day John Keats wrote the ode to autumn. He was 24 years old when he whipped this poem off.
I aspire to this beauty
|I do love apples.|
It was lovely then, and it is lovely now, so for your reading pleasure:
(a very young)
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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core"