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Here’s
A Very Beautiful Poem By John Keats.
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-eaves 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 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
red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And
gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
