Season of mists ...

Don't know about the mellow fruitfulness of this bit of Toward - does a reedy sheep field count? - but I reckon Keats hits the spot as the mists roll in at the end of s far warmer afternoon than most we've had all summer.

Too tired to blip more than to say we came home to a great day to get the holiday washing out and not repine too much for the fair sun of Italy.

And yes, there's a bit of another quotation going on there ...