To autumn by John Keats (1820)
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;
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.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever
seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair
soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the
fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next
swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden
head across a brook;
Or by a
cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest
the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them,
thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the
stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river
sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as
the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets
sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast
whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering
swallows twitter in the skies
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