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John Keats
John Keats
Born in 1795, John Keats was an English Romantic poet and author of three poems considered to be among the finest in the English language...
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FURTHER READING
Poems for Autumn
Not Merely Because of the Unknown That Was Stalking Toward Them [But the rocking chair]
by Jenny Boully
After Apple-Picking
by Robert Frost
Autumn
by Amy Lowell
Autumn
by Richard Garcia
Autumn
by T. E. Hulme
Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio
by James Wright
Autumn Evening
by David Lehman
Autumn Grasses
by Margaret Gibson
Autumn Movement
by Carl Sandburg
Fall
by Edward Hirsch
Fall Parties
by Becca Klaver
Home
by Bruce Weigl
Lament of the Middle Man
by Jay Parini
Late Autumn Wasp
by James Hoch
Leaves
by Lloyd Schwartz
Mnemosyne
by Trumbull Stickney
November
by William Cullen Bryant
November Night
by Adelaide Crapsey
October
by Robert Frost
Ode to the West Wind
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Spring and Fall
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
That time of year thou mayst in me behold (Sonnet 73)
by William Shakespeare
The Magpie's Shadow
by Yvor Winters
The Plain Sense of Things
by Wallace Stevens
The Widening Spell of the Leaves
by Larry Levis
The Wild Swans at Coole
by W. B. Yeats
To Autumn
by William Blake
Under the Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandburg
When Autumn Came
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
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To Autumn

 
by John Keats
read by Stanley Plumly

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.

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 swath and all its 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 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 gathering swallows twitter in the skies.








Audio Clip
February 1, 2008
AWP Conference, New York City
From the Academy Audio Archive



Written September 19, 1819; first published in 1820.
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