to autumn

             Currently, in British Literature (one of my favoritest school courses this year), I am studying John Keats and his life. Of course the tragedy of his love for Fanny Brawne and his passion for beauty inspired me to dive deeper into his writing. I found this gorgeous bit of loveliness (which you must listen to without further hesitation), and also this:

TO AUTUMN

by John 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-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 they 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 hill bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

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         Read it aloud, and you will see why I am in love with Keats. The imagery is astoundingly vivid and brings all of your senses to life.