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John Keats : To Autumn

				I
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-eves
				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 days has o'er-brimm'd their clammy
				cells. 

				II
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 cyder-press, with patient look,
		Thou watchest the last oozing hours by hours.

				III
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 sallows1, 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. 

John Keats (1795-1821)	P. 1820

 
FOOTNOTES
1willow trees
 

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