To Autumn

John Keats

1795 to 1821

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