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-thees,
And fill all fruit with peness 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
The 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;
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press,with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.