paroles de chanson To Autumn by John Keats - Sir Ralph Richardson
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,
Drows'd
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
cyder-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
red-breast
whistles
from
a
garden-croft;
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