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 ] |
