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 findThee 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.
To Autumn By John Keats
It's an awesome poem!! I really love it!!!