O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd <br />With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit <br />Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, <br />And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, <br />And all the daughters of the year shall dance! <br />Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. <br /> <br />'The narrow bud opens her beauties to <br />The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; <br />Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and <br />Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, <br />Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, <br />And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head. <br /> <br />'The spirits of the air live in the smells <br />Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round <br />The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.' <br />Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, <br />Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak <br />Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.<br /><br />William Blake<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-autum/
