Season of m i s t s and mellow f r u i t f u l n e s s,
Close b o s o m - f r i e nd of the maturing s u n;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the v i n e s that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with a p p l e s the moss'd c o t t a g e - t r e e s,
And fill all f r u i t with ripeness to the core; By John Keats
To swell the gourd, and plump the h a z e l s h e l l s
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later f l o w e r s for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy s t o r e?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary f l o o r,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing w i n d;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of p o p p i e s, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined f l o w e r s:
And sometimes like a g l e a n e r thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a b r o o k;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient l o o k,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the s o n g s of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred c l o u d s bloom the soft-dying d a y,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful c h o i r the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, b o r n e aloft
w i n d lives or dies;And full-grown l a m b s loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-c r i c k e t s sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering s w a l l o w s twitter in the skies.