To Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Misty Morning Eucalyptus
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

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To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

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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,

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Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

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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;

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Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:

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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.

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Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

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Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd 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;

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Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

--John Keats, 1819

Comments

  1. I love all of your posts and photos, but gotta say that last shot is just the BOMB!

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  2. Thanks Jackie! That's actually an old photo I found looking through all my Teddy and Hoover pictures, reliving some very happy memories.

    I hope you are having a beautiful Autumn.

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  3. You do have a way of making poetry come alive. Those lovely images make the amazingly soulful Keats even more wrenching.

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