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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 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-John Keats, To Autumn