Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, <br /> Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; <br />Conspiring with him how to load and bless <br /> With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; <br />To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, <br /> And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; <br /> To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells <br /> With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, <br />And still more, later flowers for the bees, <br />Until they think warm days will never cease, <br /> For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell. <br /> <br />Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? <br /> Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find <br />Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, <br /> Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; <br />Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, <br /> Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook <br /> Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; <br />And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep <br /> Steady thy laden head across a brook; <br /> Or by a cider-press, with patient look, <br /> Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. <br /> <br />Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? <br /> Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--- <br />While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, <br /> And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; <br />Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn <br /> Among the river sallows, borne aloft <br /> Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; <br />And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; <br /> Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft <br /> The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, <br /> And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-autumn/
