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Show Autumn Song. (From an Ode by John Keats.) Season of mists and yellow fruitless-ness, fruitless-ness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun: Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit and vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 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 tin: bees. Until they think warm days will never cease. For summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. Who has not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad mav find Thee sitting careless on thy granory floor. Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind: f : " Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. Drows'd with the fume of poppies while they hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleanor thou dosf keep Steady thy laden head across a book: Or by a cider-press, with patient look Thou watchest the lost oozing hours by hours. |