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-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats

Autumn

THE thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,

On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,

The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;

Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,

The greensward all wracked is, bent dried up and dead.

The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,

And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,

And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;

Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;

Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

John Clare

October

I OFT have met her slowly wandering

Beside a leafy stream, her locks blown wild,

Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fair than Spring,

As if on her the sumach copse had smiled.

Or I have seen her sitting, tall and brown,--

Her gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,--

Beneath a twisted oak from whose red leaves

She wound great drowsy wreaths and cast them down;

The west-wind in her hair, that made it swim

Far out behind, deep as the rustling sheaves.

Or in the hill-lands I have often seen

The marvel of her passage; glimpses faint

Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between,

Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint.

Or I have met her 'twixt two beechen hills,

Within a dingled valley near a fall,

Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower;

Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rills

Went babbling through the wildwood's arrased hall,

Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.

Or I have met her by some ruined mill,

Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine,

On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled chill,

And watched her swinging in the wild-grape vine.

While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains,

More sad than death, or all that death can teach,

Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms,

Where splashed the murmur of the forest's fountains;

With all her loveliness did she beseech,

And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms.

Once only in a hollow, girt with trees,

A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain,

I glimpsed her cheeks red-berried by the breeze,

In her dark eyes the night's sidereal stain.

And once upon an orchard's tangled path,

Where all the golden-rod had turned to brown,

Where russets rolled and leaves were sweet of breath,

I have beheld her 'mid her aftermath

Of blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown,

Within her gaze the deeps of life and death.

Madison Cawein