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Last Updated on June 26, 2019, by eNotes Editorial. Word Count: 440

The poem is, essentially, a short ode to autumn, melancholy, death, the act of creation, and the nature of time. Many readers and critics consider "To Autumn" to be one of Keats's finest works, and perhaps even the best short poem ever written in English poetry.

Season of mists and...

(The entire section contains 678 words.)

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The poem is, essentially, a short ode to autumn, melancholy, death, the act of creation, and the nature of time. Many readers and critics consider "To Autumn" to be one of Keats's finest works, and perhaps even the best short poem ever written in English poetry.

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.

The poem mainly focuses on the season of autumn and its haunting beauty. Keats personifies autumn and describes it as a different "person" in each stanza: In the first one he sees it as a close friend to the sun, as it brings all the fruits and plants to perfect maturity; in the second stanza he describes it as a sleeping reaper, or sometimes a gleaner, and even a cider maker; in the last stanza Keats describes autumn as a musician who combines the sounds of gnats, lambs, crickets, and swallows and creates a wonderful melody.

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.

The poem consists of thirty-three lines in total, split into three stanzas of eleven lines. It is written in a melancholic and relaxed tone. "To Autumn" is praised for its wonderful simplicity, its captivating rhetoric, and its vivid imagery. It is often described as a beautiful cohesion of sounds, sights, and senses.

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.

"Where Are The Songs Of Spring?"

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Last Updated on June 26, 2019, by eNotes Editorial. Word Count: 238

Context: Keats hails autumn as the season of fruitfulness, when the grapes that grow on the cottage wall are ripe and the apple trees are bent with their load; the gourds are swollen and the hazelnut shells are filled with sweet kernels; lateblooming flowers provide nectar for the bees, whose hives are overflowing with honey. Amidst all this plenty, Autumn himself is to be seen, perhaps on a granary floor or sound asleep on a half-reaped furrow; sometimes he is by a brook and at other times by an oozing cider press. And at this time, where are the songs of Spring? Who thinks of spring when the land is overflowing with its products? The songs should be dismissed from the mind, as they are unseasonable; Autumn, too, has his melodies: the hum of gnats along the river, the bleating of full-grown lambs, the chirp of the hedge crickets, and the soft whistle of the robin.

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.
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