抄寫:吳君明(和生物四)攝影:吳澄偉(崇生化四) |
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,
Drowsed 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 cider-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 redbreast whistles
from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows
twitter in the skies.
“To Autumn” by John Keats (1795-1821)
Reviewed by 書寫力量 The Power of Words
on
10月 19, 2015
Rating:
沒有留言: