To Autumn

   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'er-brimm'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.