Hello Guest | Welcome To Jacquii's Poetry in Color Forum
JPiC Forum for Writers is an online community exclusively dedicated to the share of poetry and writing. As a continuing work-in-progress, our poetry forums host a melange of writing with new additions being posted daily. We encourage you to right now and come join us in our celebration of diversity with the typed word!
John Keats - To Autumn
Posted in Traditional
Comments: 0 • Likes: 1 • Views: 2471
Video Details for John Keats - To Autumn
John Keats (1795 - 1821)
Images of the original manuscript, written on both sides of a single sheet of paper by Keats' own hand. 'To Autumn' was the last of Keats' great lyrics. It was more heavily revised than other works. This is perhaps Keats' most famous and beloved work. It is considered the perfect embodiment of poetic form, intent, and effect.
by John Keats
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 oozing, 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.