Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close bosom friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit that round the thatch-eves run; John Keats
Blue Remembered Hills
Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again. A.E.Housman
Summer Splendour at Castle Fraser
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