There is nothing like the old favourites – read this one aloud, it sounds so like Brinsop at this time of year.

To Autumn, by J 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-eaves 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-brimmed 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,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies while thy hook

Spares the next swathe and all it’s twined flowers;

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-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 wilful choir the small gnats mourn,

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies.

And full-grown lambs bleat loud from hill bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing, and with treble soft

The red breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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