To Autumn

 
 To Autumn
                                           by John Keats J.

       1
       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.

      2
       Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
       Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
       Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
       Thy hair sort-lifted by the winnowing wind;
       Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
       Dows’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.

      3
       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 waiful 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 form a garden-croft;
       And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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About leng xuetian(冷雪天)

I am an art lover
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