 Ode to Autumn by John Keats Red for the Brevox.org by Alan Davis Drake Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close bosom friend of the maturing son Conspiring with him, how to load and bless with fruit The vines that round the thatcheeves run To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees And fill all fruit with the 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 Or summer hath or brimmed their clammy cells Who hath not seen thee off to mid 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-reaped furrow sound asleep Drowsed with a fume of poppies. While thy hook spares the next swathe And all its twinid flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener, thou dost keep steady Thy laden head across a brook. Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing's, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Aye, where are they? 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 waleful choir, The small gnats mourn among the river-sallows, Born aloft or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies. And full-grown lambs, loud bleat from hilly-born, Hedge-crickets sing, and now, with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows, twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. Oh, to Autumn by John Keats. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. 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 thatcheeves run, To bend with apples the mossed 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'erbrimmed 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-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twinet flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener, Thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing's, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? I, 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 waleful choir, The small gnats mourn among the river-sallows, Born aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies, And full-grown lambs loud-bleat from hilly-born. Hedge-cricquets sing, and now, with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to Autumn by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by Dailybab 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-eaves run. To bend with apple the mossed cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core. To swell the gourd, to plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel. To set budding moor and still moor Later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has overbrimmed 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 an a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, While thy hook spares the next swathe And all its twined flowers. And sometimes like a gleener, Thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing's, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day, And touch the subtle plains with rosy hue, Then in a waleful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft, Or sinking as the light wind libs or dies, And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly-born, Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The red-bress whistles from a garden croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to Autumn by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by Dennis Sayers In Modesto, California, November 2007 Ode to Autumn. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close was a friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him, how to load and bless with fruit The vines that round the thatch-eaves run To bend with apples, the mossed 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 orb-bremmed their clammy-cells Who hath not seen the oft amid thy store? Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find the sitting Careless on a granary floor, thy hair soft Lifted by the winnowing wind, or On a half-reaped furrow sound sleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twinid flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener, thou dust keep steady Thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? I, 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 waleful choir, the small gnats mourn Among their river-sallows, borne aloft, Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies. And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly-born Hedge-crickets sing, and now with trouble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden croft And gathering swallows twitter in disguise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Spiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatcheeves run. To bend with apples the mossed 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'erbrimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee off to mid-dye store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. Thy hair soft-lined by the winnowing wind, Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drows with the fume of poppies, While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twined flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener thou dust keep steady, Thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider-press with patient look, Thou watches the last oozing hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? I, 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 waleful choir, the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft, Or sinking as the light winds lives or dies. And full-grown lambs, loud bleat from hilly borne, Hedge crickets sing. And now, with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden croft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to Autumn by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by Ernst Schnell in Aberdeen On the 17th of November 2007. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close bosom friend of the maturing sun Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit-divines that round the thatch eaves run. To bend with apples the must-cuttaged trees And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core. To swell the gourd and plump the hazel-shells With sweet kernel to set-butting more. And still more lighter flowers for the bees Until they think warm days will never cease For summers overbrim their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find The sitting careless on a granary floor. Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind Or on a half-reep furrow sound asleep Drowsed with the fume of poppies While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twinted flowers. And sometimes like a cleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook Or by a cider-press with patient look Thou watches the last oozing hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them, though hast thy music to. While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue. Then in a wailful choir the small gnets mourn Among the river-cellows borne aloft Or sinking as the light-wind lives or dies. And full-grown lambs loud bleed from the hilly borne Hedge crickets sing and now with treble soft The red-breasted whistles from a garden croft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Fruits the vines that round the thatcheeves run To bend with apples the moss 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 orb-rimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen the often-myth I store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find these Sitting careless on a granary floor. Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind Or on a half-rooped furrow sound asleep Drowsed with the fume of poppies While thy hook spares the neck swath And all its twine flowers. And sometimes like a gleener thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook Or by a cider press with patient look Thou watches the last oozing hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? I, 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 a rosy hue Then in a wellful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows born aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly-born Hedge-cricket sing, and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden croft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh, do autumn by John Geetz, Red for LibriVox.org, by Gemma Blythe 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-patch eaves run To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core To swell the gourd and lump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel to set-butting more And still more later flowers for the bees Until they think warm days will never cease For summer has overbrimmed their clammy cells Who hath not seen thee after mid thy store Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find thee sitting careless On a granary floor thy ass off-lifted By the winnowing wind or on a half-reaped furrow Sound asleep, drowsed with the fume of poppies While thy hook spares the next wharf And all its twined flowers And sometimes like a gleaner that dust keeps steady Thy laden head across a brook Or by a side of breast with patient look Thou watchest the last oozing hours by hours Where are the songs of spring, eh? 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 you Then in a waleful choir The small gnats mourn among the river sallows Born aloft or stinking as the light wind lives or dies And full-grown lambs loud bleeped from heliborne Hedge crickets sing And now with treble soft the red breast whistles From a garden graft and gathering swallows Twitter in the skies End of fume is recording is in the public domain Ode to Autumn by John Keats Read for Librebox.org by JC Guan Montreal November 2007 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 thatched eaves run To bend with apples the moss cottage trees And fill out 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 all brimmed their clammy sails Who has not seen the oft mid-dice door Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find The sitting careless on a granary floor That I hear soft lifted by the winnowing wind Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep Drowsed with the fume of puppies While that I hook spares the next swath And all its twined flowers And sometimes like a gleener Though dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook Or by a cider-press with patient look Thou watchest the last oozing hours by hours Where are the songs of spring? Hey, where are they? Think none of them, though has thy music to While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue Then in a wailful choir the smog gnats mourn Among the river swallows borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly borne Hedge cricket sing, and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden craft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies And of poem, this recording is in the public domain Ode to Autumn by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by James Gladwin Somerset, November 2007 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-eaves run To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core To swell the good, 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 overbrimmed their clammy cells Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find thee Sitting careless on the granary floor Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind Or on a half-weeped furrow sound asleep Drowsed with the fume of poppies While thy hook spares the next sway Than all its twine-it flowers And sometimes, like a gleener, Thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook Or by a cider-press, with patient look Thou watchest the last oozing, ours by ours Where are the songs of spring? Aye, 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 waleful choir, The small gnats mourn among the weaver sallows Born aloft, all sinking, As the light wind lives or dies And full-grown lambs loud-bleat from hilly-born Hedge-cricket sing And now, with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden croft And gathering swallows twitter in the sky End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. 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-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twined flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener, Thou dost keep steady thy laden head Across a brook, or by a cider-press, With patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing, Ours by ours Where are the songs of spring? I, where are they? Think not of them, Thou hast thy music too. While borrowed clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue, Then in a waleful choir the small gnats Mourn among the river-sallows, Born aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies, And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly-born Hedge-cricket sing, And now, with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To bend with apples the mossed 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'erbrimmed 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-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twined flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener, Thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing's. Ours by ours. Where are the songs of spring? Aye, 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 waleful choir, The small gnats mourn among the river-salos, Born aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies. And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly borne, Hedge-crickets sing, And now, with treble soft, The red breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows, twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to Autumn by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett Season of miss 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 thatcheeves run, To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core, To swell the gourd and pump 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 orb-rimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee often mid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find The sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drows with a fume of poppies, While they hook spares the next swath At all its twined flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener, Thou dost keep steady thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cider press with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozing's hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? I—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 wellful choir the small gnats Mourn among the river-sallows, Mourn aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies, And full-grown lambs loud bleep from hilly borne, Hedge-crickets sing, and now with trouble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Ode to Autumn by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by Mary Anderson Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close was a friend of the maturing son Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatcheeves run To bend with apples the mossed 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 brimmed their clammy cells Who hath not seen thee off to mid 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-reaped furrow sound asleep Drowsed with a fume of poppies While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twine flowers. And sometimes, like a gleener thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook Or by a cider-press with patient look Thou watches the last oozing hours by hours Where are the songs of spring? I, 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 waleful 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 borne Hedge-crickets sing, and now, with trouble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden croft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Oaked to Autumn by John Keats Read for LibriVox.org by Melissa November 2007 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close bosom friend of the maturing sun Conspiring with him how the load and bless with fruit The vines that round the thatcheeves run Debend with apples the mossed 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 overbrimmed their clammy cells Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a grainry floor Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep Drows with a fume of poppies While thy hook spares the next swath And all its twined flowers And sometimes, like a cleaner, thou dost keep steady Thy laden head across a brook Or by a cider-press, with patient look Thou watchest the last oozing hour by hour Where are the songs of spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too While barried clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue Then, in a wailful claw-ire The small gnats mourn among the river-sallows Born aloft or sinking as the light wind lives or dies And full-grown lambs loud-bleat from hilly-born Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The red-pressed whistles from a garden-croft In gatherings