Saturday, 21 April 2012

To Autumn (K is for 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-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 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, 
    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 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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 
        And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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