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-breat whistles from a garden-croft;         And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.