Wednesday, September 29, 2010

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 

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