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 bloomthe 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 loves 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.
~ John Keats ~
