The Internet Poetry Archive


To Autumn

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-eaves 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 cell.

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 twined 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 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
          And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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