To Autumn

Season ofmists andmellowfruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the
maturingsun; Conspiring withhim how to load and bless Withfruit the
vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend withapples themoss'd
cottage-trees, And fill allfruit withripeness to thecore; To swell the
gourd, and plump the hazelshells With asweet kernel; toset budding
more, And stillmore, laterflowers for the bees, Until they thinkwarm
days will nevercease, For summerhas o'er-brimm'd their clammycells. Who
hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimeswhoever seeks abroad may
find Thee sitting careless on a granaryfloor, Thy hairsoft-lifted by
the winnowing wind; Or on ahalf-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with
the fume ofpoppies,while thyhook Spares thenextswath and allits
twinedflowers: And sometimes like agleaner thoudost keep Steady thy
ladenheadacross abrook; Or by a cyder-press, with patientlook, Thou
watchest thelast oozings hours by hours. Where are thesongs ofspring?
Ay,where are they? Think not of them, thouhast thy music too, - While
barred clouds bloom thesoft-dying day, Andtouch the stubble-plains with
rosy hue; Then in a wailfulchoir thesmall gnats mourn Among the river
sallows, borne aloft Orsinking as thelight windlives or dies; And
full-grown lambs loud bleatfrom hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; andnow
with treblesoft The red-breatwhistlesfrom agarden-croft; And
gatheringswallowstwitter in theskies.