By John Keats
-
Season of mists and mellow
f r u i t f u l n e s s ,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing
s u n ;
Conspiring
with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the
thatch-eves
r u n ;
To bend with apples the moss'd
c o t t a g e - t r e e s ,
And
fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the
hazel
s h e l l s
With a sweet kernel; to set budding
m o r e ,
And
still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will
never
c e a s e ,
For summer has o'erbrimm'd their
clammy
c e l l s .
-
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 floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the
winnowing
w i n d ;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound
a s l e e p ,
Drows'd
with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its
twined
f l o w e r s:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou
dost
k e e p
Steady
thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient
l o o k,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours
by
h o u r s
-
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are
t h e y ?
Think not of them, thou hast thy
music
t o o ,
While
barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with
rosy
h u e ;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats
m o u r n
Among
the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives
or
d i e s ;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from
hilly
b o u r n ;
Hedge-crickets
sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from
a g a r d e n - c r o f t,
And gathering swallows twitter in
the
s k i e s .