John Keats

                                                                                                                                                                       T  O       

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                                                                                                                                                                       U  

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                                                                                                                                                                       U  

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                                                                                           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'erbrimm'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 bloom the 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 lives 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.