John Keat's "To Autumn"
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.
Analysis of the last paragraph:
why are you jealous of the songs of spring
don't be jealous, you have your own music
like the flowers of spring your clouds have music
clouds are singing in their own bars
and are blooming in their own colors
their scent is spreading to the plains
whose grain plants have now been harvested
leaving bare stalks in the ground
but the red tinge from the clouds
touches the ground and affirms a rosy future
Two-winged fly-like gnats buzzing a melancholy choir
among the river left yellow and dirty with receding water
sometimes going up and sometimes going down
as the wind in counterpoint grows strong and weak
and you have lambs that are now fully grown
and wail loudly around the hills with streams
that comes and goes. Crickets singing hidden
in hedges, and in the higher octaves the red-breast
whistles in a garden, swallows twitter in the skies.
the purpose of your life is to sing,
hear the music, and keep on singing
dear shiv in autumn, sing your song