2 Autumn by John Keats Season of Mists and Mellow Fruit Formis Close but on friend of the maturing sun, conspiring with him, how to load and bless with fruit the vines that round the fat eaves run, to bend with apples, the mossed cottage trees, and fill or fruit with brightness to the core, to swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells, with sweet kernel to set budding more, and still more later flowers with the bees, until they think warm days will never cease, for summer has overbrived their clammy cells. Who have not seen the often mid-dice door, sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find these sitting carelessly 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 spares the next swath and haul its twin-to-flowers, and sometimes, like a cleaner, thou dost keep steady though they can head at cross the block, or by a side-upress with patient look, thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Hey, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too? Wild barred clouds at bloom, the soft dying day, and touch the stubble plains with rosy hue, then in a wailful fire, the small gnats mourn, among the river-shallows born aloft, or sinking as light-wind lifts or dies, and fully grown lambs loud bleat from hilly-born. Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft, the red-breast whistles from a garbled craft, and gathering swallows Twitter in the skies.