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 their hilly bourne;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with trampled wings Near him, like flying toads, the swallows fly; And he, he saw the sunset as it sings To raise the veil of night and in the sky.

But I not know them, it ripens too late. And there’s no joy to take away that fate.

— To Autumn

• John Keats