To Autumn

A poem 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.

Photo: Illustrative image for the 'To Autumn' page
This page was added by Melanie Matthews on 16/10/2011.