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To Autumn

18/9/2011

 
        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.
  "To Autumn" was written by the poet John Keats who died on 23 February 1821 aged just 25 years. The work was composed on 19 September 1819 after a walk near the River Itchen at Winchester, Hampshire one autumnal evening. It was published in 1820 and is regarded by many to be the most perfect short poem in the English language.
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    About Us

    Hello! My name is Gordon and I am a Gold Sebright and my best friend is Sylvia. She is a Silver Sebright. We live with our foster parents on a small farm in the country.  We thought that we would put our take on life and what we get up to through the year into a diary for you. All the characters are real and the events are a true record,  interpreted with a modicum of poetic licence. We hope you enjoy it. Love Gordon and Sylvia

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