[autumn fall] down britain's leafy lanes

As the first little chill nips at the neck, as the shadows lengthen, thoughts turn to home.

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-eaves run.

Keats [to Autumn] 1820