To Autumn / John Keats - poems

-To Autumn-

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  watcher 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.