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-eave 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. 

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 wail-full choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river swallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 

And full-frown 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