By John Keats 




To autumn

 

 

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,

Drowsed 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 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.


Source:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Autumn





Poetry by Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-10-28 at 19:36

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Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Sometimes, the fact that John Keats accomplished all his immortal poetry before dying at age not-quite-26 startles, amazes me, stops me dead in my tracks. His genius inspires perpetual gratitude.
2017-10-30