Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

To Autumn
-John Keats

Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round thatch-eaves run-

To bend with apples the mossed 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 flower for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abrad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reaped furrow, sound asleep,

Drowsed wit the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thoud ost keep

Steady the thy laden head across a brook,

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

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

Think not of them, thou has thy music too-

While barred clouds bloom the softy-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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Happy first day of Autumn!