"Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them; thou hast thy music too,

While barred clouds bloom the softly dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river shallows, 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 redbreast whistles from a garden croft,

And gathering swallows twitter from the skies."

—Keats.

"It was a fair and mild autumnal sky,

And earth's ripe pleasures met the admiring eye,

As a rich beauty, when her bloom is lost,

Appears with more magnificence and cost."