To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof, there thou may'st rest
And tune my jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs through her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brow of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head.

The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit, and joy, with pinions light rove round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself,and oe'r the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; and left the golden load.


William Blake, Artist and poet