John Keats
(1795 Π 1821)

To Autumn.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
ΚΚΚ Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
ΚΚΚ With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
ΚΚΚ And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
ΚΚΚΚΚΚΚ To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
ΚΚΚ With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
ΚΚΚΚΚΚΚ For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
ΚΚΚ Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
ΚΚΚ Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
ΚΚΚ Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
ΚΚΚΚΚΚΚ Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
ΚΚΚ Steady thy laden head across a brook;
ΚΚΚ Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
ΚΚΚΚΚΚΚ Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring?Κ Ay, where are they?
ΚΚΚ Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
ΚΚΚ And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
ΚΚΚ Among the river sallows, borne aloft
ΚΚΚΚΚΚΚ Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
ΚΚΚ Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
ΚΚΚ The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
ΚΚΚΚΚΚΚ And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.