To Autumn
John Keats
1795 to 1821
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Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by 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:
sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, are they?
Think not of them, thou hast music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And swallows twitter in the skies.