John Keats
To Autumn
       1Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
       2Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
       3Conspiring with him how to load and bless
       4With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
       5To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
       6And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
       7To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
       8With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
       9And still more, later flowers for the bees,
      10Until they think warm days will never cease,
      11For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
      12Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
      13Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
      14Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
      15Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
      16Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
      17Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
      18Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
      19And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
      20Steady thy laden head across a brook;
      21Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
      22Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
      23Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
      24Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
      25While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
      26And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
      27Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
      28Among the river sallows, borne aloft
      29Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
      30And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
      31Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
      32The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
      33And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/display/poem1136.html
