Wednesday, 4 January 2017
Sunday, 6 November 2016
Dancing lights onto the autumn leaves
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,
Drows'd
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
cyder-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
red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And
gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Thursday, 17 March 2016
Sunday, 3 January 2016
The Winter’s Wind
The Winter's Wind
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops ‘mong the freezing stars!
To thee the spring will be a harvest time.
O thou whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on
Night after night, when Phœbus was away!
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge. I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge! I have none.
And yet the evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.
– John Keats (1795-1821)
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