<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128); font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: xx-large; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">To Autumn</span><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div>by John Keats</div><div><br></div><div>Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, </div><div> Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; </div><div>Conspiring with him how to load and bless </div><div> With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; </div><div>To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, </div><div> And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; </div><div> To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells </div><div>With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, </div><div> And still more, later flowers for the bees, </div><div> Until they think warm days will never cease, </div><div> For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. </div><div><br></div><div>Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? </div><div> Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find </div><div>Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, </div><div> Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; </div><div>Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, </div><div> Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook </div><div> Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: </div><div>And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep </div><div> Steady thy laden head across a brook; </div><div> Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, </div><div> Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. </div><div><br></div><div>Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? </div><div> Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, - </div><div>While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, </div><div> And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; </div><div>Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn </div><div> Among the river sallows, borne aloft </div><div> Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; </div><div>And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; </div><div> Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft </div><div> The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; </div><div> And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.</div></div><div><br></div>————————————————-<br><br><div dir="ltr"><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Seeya 'round town, Moscow, because . . .</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Moscow Cares" (the most fun you can have with your pants on)</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.MoscowCares.net</span></div><div><br></div><div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Tom Hansen</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Moscow, Idaho</span></div></div><div><br></div><div>“A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met.”</div><div>- Roy E. Stolworthy</div><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></body></html>