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To Autumn
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
1)Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To 2)swell the gourd, and 3)plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set 4)budding more,
And still more, 5)later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their 6)clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee 7)oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a 8)granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the 9)winnowing wind;
Or on a half 10)reap’d 11)furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next 21)swath and all its 12)twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou 13)dost keep
Steady thy 14)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? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the 15)stubble-plains with rosy 16)hue;
Then in a 17)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 18)treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-19)croft;
And gathering swallows 20)twitter in the skies.
