To Autumn
Mists, a maturing sun and a conspiracy to load the vines run through the opening, where the bees believe warm days will never cease because their clammy cells are already over-brimmed. The season is then personified as a figure seen sitting careless on a granary floor, sound asleep on a half-reaped furrow, or watching the last oozings from a cider press hours by hours. Written after a Sunday walk by the Itchen at Winchester in September 1819, it is the last of the great odes and the one Keats never tried to explain.
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Closest analogues
- 80% · 11 shared
- 76% · 10 shared
- 76% · 10 shared
- 76% · 9 shared
- 71% · 10 shared
- 71% · 10 shared