To Autumn
BY 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
Tobend 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 dayswill 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 furrw sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies,while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
Andsometimes like a gleaner thoudost 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 ofspring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy musicto0,
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then ina wailfulchoir the smallgnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grownlambs loudbleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-cricketssing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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