The autumn’s brow is flushed with red, and there The wind sang loud through the sour grape’s stares, While the play of sunbeams, bright and fair, Open the path that flows with honeyed airs.

The corn is ripe and golden through the fields, And bakes in warmth beneath the midday sun, Where wheat there longs to sway in velvet yields And offers sweet repose when the day’s done. — The autumn

• John Keats