《秋颂》原文 ： To Autumn
                                     　　                                                                       by John Keats J.

　　　　　　　1
　　　　　　　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.

　　　　　　2
　　　　　　　Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
　　　　　　　Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
　　　　　　　Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
　　　　　　　Thy hair sort-lifted by the winnowing wind;
　　　　　　　Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
　　　　　　　Dows’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.

　　　　　　3
　　　　　　　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 waiful 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 form a garden-croft;
　　　　　　　And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.