A gallery of famous English and American poets . nd not a soul, to tellWhy thou art desolate, can eer return. 0 Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwroughtWith forest branches and the trodden weed ; Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thouQ-htAs doth eternity : Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. TO AUTUMN. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend
A gallery of famous English and American poets . nd not a soul, to tellWhy thou art desolate, can eer return. 0 Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwroughtWith forest branches and the trodden weed ; Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thouQ-htAs doth eternity : Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 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-eaves run;To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; TO AUTUMN. 273 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more, still more, later flowers for the they think warm days will never cease. Per Summer has ocr-brimmed their clammy \V^ho hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 274 KEATS. Spares tlie next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook ;Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thon 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 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 gath
Size: 1559px × 1602px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksu, booksubjectenglishpoetry
