To Autumn
By John
Keats
Season of
mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close
bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
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,
Or on a
half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Spares
the next swath and all its twined flowers:
Or
by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou
watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Think
not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
Then in a
wailful choir the small gnats mourn
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
And
gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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