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.