To Autumn
Keats, John (1795-1821)

  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 mossed 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-brimmed 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-reaped furrow sound asleep,
    Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
      Spares the next swath and all its twinŹd flowers:
  And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
    Or by a cider-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 barrŹd 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.
   


Immortal Poems of the English Language (Williams)