To Autumn
John
Keats
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.