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. 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

I watch the woods for deer who never come. 

I know the hes and shes in autumn 

rendezvous in orchards stained with fallen 

apples’ scent. I drive my car this way to work 

so I may let the crows in corn believe 

it’s me their caws are meant to warn, 

and snakes who turn in warm and secret caves