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-eaves run; |
To bend with apples the mossed
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'erbrimmed 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-reaped furrow sound
asleep, |
Drowsed with the
fume of poppies, while thy hook |
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd 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 redbreast
whistles from a garden-croft; |
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
|
John Keats | Classic
Poems |
|
[ La Belle Dame Sans Merci ] [ Ode to a Nightingale ] [ Ode on a Grecian Urn ] [ Ode on Indolence ] [ Ode to Psyche ] [ Ode on Melancholy ] [ Ode to autumn ] |