#poppy kernel

[triniitea]

Finally made some reference sheets for my character Poppy! 🍿

[winged-tentacle]

Sunpop?

not really ship art, I just think they are silly together :]

[itskynn]

Poppy Kernel (Genderbent Kernel Poppy OC)

I drew this last year and never finished it, but its in a good enough state that I'm fine with posting it anyway.

[doomcvte]

wanna be my boy best friend

[ohsalome]

What Ukrainians ate to survive Holodomor

(translated excerpts from an Історична Правда article): + images source

The villagers would dig up the holes of the polecats to find at least a handful of grain hidden by these animals. They pounded it in a mortar, added a handful of oilcake (from hemp seed), beetroot, potato peelings, and baked something from this mixture.

Those who managed to hide at least a little grain would grind it in iron mills made from wheel axles and cook "zatyrukha" (a concoction made from a small amount of flour ground from ears of grain).

Acacia flowers were boiled and eaten raw, and green quinoa was mixed with crushed corn cobs. Those who could - and this was considered lucky - added a handful of bran. This food made their feet swell and their skin crack.

The peasants dried the husked ears of corn and millet husks, pounded them, ground them with weeds, and cooked soups and baked pancakes. Such dishes were impossible to chew, the body could not digest them, so people had stomach aches. Pancakes, the so-called "matorzhenyky", were made from oilcake and nettle or plantain.

It went so far that peasants would crumble straw into small chips and pound it in a mortar together with millet and buckwheat chaff, and tree bark. All this was mixed with potato peelings, which were very poisonous, and this mixture was used to bake "bread", the consumption of which caused severe stomach diseases.

There were cases when village activists took away and broke millstones, mortars, poured water on the heat in their ovens. After all, anything found or saved from the food had to be cooked on fire, and matches could only be purchased by bartering for their own belongings or by buying them in the city, which was impossible from villagers that were on "black lists".

Chestnuts, aspen and birch bark, buds, reed roots, hawthorn and rose hips, which were the most delicious, were used as food substitutes; various berries, even poisonous ones, were picked; grass seeds were ground into flour; "honey" from sugar beets was cooked, and water brewed with cherry branches was drunk. They also ate the kernels of sunflower seeds.

Newborns had the worst of it, because their mothers had no breast milk. According to testimonies, a mother would let her child suck the drink from the top of the poppy head, and the child would fall asleep for three days.

In early spring, the villagers began to dig up old potato fields. They would bake dumplings from frozen potatoes, grind rotten potatoes in a mash and make pancakes, greasing the frying pan with wheel grease. They also baked "blyuvaly" (transl. "vomities") from such potatoes and oatmeal mixed with water, which was so called because they were very smelly.

They ate mice, rats, frogs, hedgehogs, snakes, beetles, ants, worms, i.e. things that weren't a part of food bans and had never been eaten by people before. The horror of the famine is also evidenced by the consumption of spiders, which are forbidden to kill in Ukrainian society for ritual reasons.

In some areas, slugs were boiled into a soup, and the cartilaginous meat was chopped and mixed with leaves. This prevented swelling of the body and contributed to survival. People caught tadpoles, frogs, lizards, turtles, and mollusks. They boiled them, adding a little salt if there was salt. The starving people caught cranes, storks, and herons, which have been protected in Ukraine for centuries, and their nests were never destroyed. According to folk beliefs, eating stork meat was equated with cannibalism.

The consumption of horse meat began in 1931, before the mass famine. People used to take dead horsemeat from the cemeteries at night, make jelly out of it and salt it for future use.

Dead horses were poured with carbolic acid to prevent people from taking their meat, but it hardly stopped anybody. Dead collective farm pigs were also doused with kerosene to prevent people from dismantling them for food, but this did not help either.

After long periods of starvatiom, the process of digestion is very costing for the human body, and many people who would eat anything would drop dead immediately out of exhaustion.

If a family had a cow hidden somewhere in the forest, they had a chance to survive. People living near forests could hunt/seek out berries and mushrooms, but during winter this wouldn't save them. People living near rivers could fish in secret, but it was banned and punishable by imprisonment/death.

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy knew it… it was going to rain again! And very soon now, if he wasn't much mistaken. Yesterday's sunshine had vanished just as quickly as it had come, and although the new day had started in a reasonably bright sort of way, it had soon changed its mind and clouded over, and now the sky was turning darker and darker by the minute.

So Algy flew up into the bushes and wallowed happily in a sea of beautiful hydrangeas, before they became truly awash once more. Somewhere behind him a robin was trilling its autumn song, and Algy knew that the seasons had turned once again. Hoping that perhaps the coming months would bear more resemblance to Keats' famous poem than to the typical West Highland autumn he knew only too well, Algy recited the verses out loud to the bees who were busily investigating the flowers all around him, although they seemed too intent on their work to pay much attention:

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.

[Algy is of course reciting one of the most famous poems in English literature, To Autumn, by the early 19th centure English poet John Keats.]

[academic-vampire]

“Ode To Autumn”

By John Keats

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;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

(Pub. 1820)

[witchtickles]

Cerridwen

Deity Of: Magic, wisdom, transformation, poetry, creativity, herbalism Animals: white pig, crow, hen, hare Crystals: moonstone, selenite Herbs & Trees: vervain, wheat, barley, oak, poppy Favorite Offerings: grains, acorns, pork, vervain leaves Symbols: Cauldron, white sow, grain

Cerridwen was an enchantress from Welsh legend and the mother of a beautiful daughter, Creirwy, and a hideous son, Morfran. Cerridwen knew that her son would never be accepted because of his looks, so she sought to make a potion that would make him the wisest man alive in compensation.

She began to brew a potion in her magical cauldron that would grant her son the gift of wisdom and poetic inspiration, also called Awen. The potion had to brew for a year and a day, so she set a blind man named Morda to tend the fire, and a young boy named Gwion Bach to stir the potion. Once completed, the first three drops would grant the gift of Awen and the rest was fatal poison.

On the final day of the brewing, when the potion was ready, the boy spilled three drops of it onto his thumb. Instinctively, he put his thumb in his mouth to sooth the burn, thus consuming the wisdom and inspiration meant for Morfran. Understanding what he had done, Gwion Bach fled to avoid Cerridwen's anger.

She gave chase, and using the powers of the potion, Gwion Bach attempted to elude her by transforming into a series of animals. He became a hare and Cerridwen became a greyhound. He became a salmon and jumped into the river, and she became an otter. He became a sparrow and she became a hawk. Finally, he turned into a single kernel of corn and Cerridwen turned into a hen and ate him.

Because of the potion, he was not destroyed and instead Cerridwen became pregnant. She vowed to kill him when he was born, but the baby was so beautiful that she could not bring herself to do it. Instead, she placed the baby in a coracle and pushed him out to sea. He was rescued on the Welsh shore by a prince and grew up to become the legendary bard, Taliesin.

[autumncottageattic]

countryhomemagazine

"To Autumn" by John Keats

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.

[valhallaas]

Out To Get You

Chapter One - October 24th

Masterlist

pairing: bob floyd x poppy!reader

summary: death was surrounding you. why were you the only one seeing it? It was all tied to you. When your friends started getting phone calls, and the sudden disappearances, it didn’t take you long to figure it out.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni) some themes may be upsetting, this is a slasher fic. there’s going to be gore. death. blood. violence. horror. (eventual) smut.

a/n: here it is!!! chapter one! i am so happy to share it with you all! please let me know what you think! this is only the beginning…

The bowl popcorn sitting in your lap goes flying when you hear a bang come from outside. It litters the floor, clings to the couch cushions, you’re pretty sure there’s some even in your hair. Huffing, you stand and pause the movie you’d been watching—ruining the ambiance you’d been building during your scary movie marathon—as more kernels fall to the ground. Stepping carefully to avoid most of the mess, you make your way to the front door. Stepping out on the porch, the lights flick on as you glance around. One of the neighbors' trash cans has fallen over. Rolling your eyes, you turn on your heel and head back in. Better them than you. If Lisa sees that, they’ll have a thorn in their side for the next month. Your eyes roll again. Lisa. The old bat. She’s not even that old, she’s like fifty-five at most. She’s the type of woman who believes you live in an HOA when you don’t. You find notices taped to your door and in your mailbox that nobody takes seriously. She calls the cops when you don’t comply with what she wants. It drives you up the wall. The last time she’d done it to you was a few weeks ago when Bob had been by. She taped a notice to his truck window telling him he couldn’t park on the street in front of your house. Fucking unbelievable.

Your marathon continues its pause as you clean up your mess, even going as far to pull out the cushions. All because of a damn trash can. Finally settling in to hit play, the phone rings. Is God against you right now? Can you not enjoy your evening?

“Hello?” No one says anything, just heavy breathing.

You hang up only to be called again.

“Hello?” You ask a second time.

“Hello.”

“Can I help you?”

“Who am I talking to?” You adjust the phone on your ear, uncomfortable, the line crackling, breaking up.

“Who’re you trying to call?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hope you figure it out, buddy.” You say lightly, tugging a blanket up over your legs. “Take it easy.”

Weird. You toss the phone down next to you and settle in. One moment, you’re watching TV, the movie you had put on right at its climax, the next moment, you’re jolted awake, unsure of your surroundings. It’s dark in your house. The TV is on the main screen of the streaming service, all the lights are off—which you don’t remember turning off to begin with. That feeling again, the tingle on the back of your neck. Sitting up, you glance around the house, unsure of what you’re looking for. Grabbing your phone, you wince at the time. It’s late. What was it that had woken you up? You’re in desperate need of a long, hot shower. There’s a few texts. One from Jake and two from Bob. Jake’s is a pic of him and the Hard Deck, Rooster and Coyote with him. You frown when you see in the very back—Bob and that one guy, Jagger, in what looks like a heated argument. You know without a doubt that it’s about you. He had grabbed your ass and pinned you against the wall like a ragdoll, like you owed him something for wearing anything other than your khakis. Didn’t take long for him to get thrown out. He’s lucky that’s all that happened. The other two texts are Bob telling you when he got to the bar and when he left. You smile. He doesn’t have to tell you, but he knows you worry.

The smiles cut short when you hear screaming. You’re not sure what house it's coming from, but it’s loud. You don’t know if they’re in pain or if it's fun, but it doesn't last long. Waiting a few minutes without hearing anything more, you get in the shower. Things have been off, kind of weird lately. You’ve been on edge, slightly paranoid since the incident at the park. It creeps up on you when you least expect it. Waves of terror that never seem to go away. No matter where you are, you swear you can see that ghost faced figure out of the corner of your eye, standing there watching.

There’s a text from Bob waiting for you when you enter your bedroom. Open your door. Cocking your head, you tug the towel tighter around you, walking silently through the house. Strange, the only thing you can hear is your own heartbeat. You eye the clock above the stove. 3:38am. You’re caught right in the middle of the witching hour. Fingers slightly trembling around the knob, with a sigh accompanied by a soft smile, you’re greeted by cobalt blue eyes, an easy grin in return.

“How’d you know I was awake?” You ask, making room to let him in.

“Lucky guess.”

He follows you into the bedroom, leaning against the doorway watching as you get dressed. A smile crawls on your face, feeling his eyes roaming. This is new. This—whatever this is with him. You’d been playing will they or won’t they for months. You like to tease, and Bob, Bob is always willing to indulge you.

“You going to stare all night, Bobby?” You question pulling on one of his t-shirts. “I hear a picture will last longer.”

Shaking his head he steps forward, pulling his shirt over his head. Toeing out of his shoes on the other side of the bed, he sets his glasses on the side table. He’s watching you crawl into bed, burrowing down deep into the blankets.

“Hm, I’ll have to remember that for next time.”

Your head falls back with a laugh. This man, he makes your toes curl and heat gather in your cheeks. He puts up a good front. That meek back seater. Sometimes others can see how he truly is. Natasha more than others. But nobody comes close to you. You just get each other. Ever since Lemoore. As a native to the Central Valley, you showed him the best parts that reminded him of home. Something shifted at some point. Home was no longer a place, but a person.

Once in bed, Bob’s legs slot with yours, arms pulling you in close. You sigh, content, finally relaxing. The presence of another person calming you, the heaviness of sleep weighing on your eyes. Lips brush against your forehead. God, you could get used to this.

“Hey,” you mumble, “did you hear anything while you were waiting outside for me?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. Saw that one of the neighbors' trash cans was knocked over. Why?”

“I heard screaming earlier.”

Bob pulls you closer. “Screaming?”

“Yeah. I just—I don’t know.”

“Spooked you?”

You shrug. “Well, I had been watching scary movies. Tonight’s been weird.”

He laughs, his warm breath dancing across your skin. “That’ll do it, Poppy.”

It’s silent, but it’s comfortable. Your eyes are heavy and sleep is pulling you under, but you feel it. You’re being watched. Tilting your head up, Bob’s laying with his eyes closed, lips slightly parted. It’s amazing how fast he can fall asleep. A real talent. Paranoia. That’s all it is. You snuggle in deeper and finally call it a night.

“Poppy,” You groan, swatting at the hand cupping your face. “Poppy, baby, wake up.”

Peeling your eyes open, a blurry Bob is leaning over you. He’s fully dressed, glasses on, bed head still untamed. Pushing yourself up on one arm, you glance over at the alarm clock and frown.

“Why are you waking me up so early on Saturday, Floyd?”

“There’s police outside.”

“What?” You’re squinting, still not fully awake.

“There’s—here, just look.”

Bob all but grabs you and pulls you to the window. Your breath catches in your throat. They’re everywhere. You’re pretty sure they have the street blocked off. You follow the caution tape, heart just about coming to a stop in your chest.

Lisa.

Oh, God. It was Lisa. You heard Lisa last night. Goosebumps cover your skin at the thought. You heard a murder last night. You jump when you feel the warm press of Bob’s hand against your lower back. It stills you, you didn’t realize you’d been shaking. Taking in an uneven breath you move away from the window on unsteady feet. Instantly you’re reaching for your phone, pressing it to your ear before you’ve even registered who you’re calling.

He answers on the first ring. “Poppy?”

“Lisa’s dead.”

Jake pauses. “What?”

“She was murdered last night. I heard her get murdered last night, Jake. I—”

“Poppy, Poppy. It’s—are you alone?”

“No, I’ve got Bobby with me.”

“Good that’s, that’s good.” You can tell he’s nodding his head. He’s reassuring himself. You fiddle with your dog tags. Something’s wrong.

“Jake?”

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Poppy, they found Jagger's body mutilated in a dumpster by the Hard Deck.”

He’s whispering, like he’s not supposed to be telling you this. You hear him talking to someone, hearing the distinct voice of Rooster. They are probably there. They were last seen with him. Instantly your eyes land on Bob who’s sitting beside you. He’s watching you with deep seeded concern. You reach out for him, shaking your head. This is a mess. What the hell is going on? Two murders in fighter town? One of them is an aviator? You swallow thinking of that picture Jake sent you, the one with Bob in the back.

“What is it?” He whispers.

“Jake says they found Jagger. He’s, he’s dead. Murdered.”

The blood drains from his face. Blue eyes widening. You wonder if he knows that it isn’t looking so good for him.

“Let me talk to him.”

He doesn’t wait for you to say anything before he’s taking the phone and heading out of the room. Dragging in a much needed breath, you force yourself to go about your routine. The day has just begun, and there’s no doubt that it’s a bad one. After getting dressed and ready for the day, you pad into the living room, boots in hand only to pause in your step. Bob’s at the front door talking to an officer. You swallow around the lump in your throat when they both turn to face you.

“Good morning,” the officer says, causing you to frown.

He’s here about Lisa and he starts off with good morning?

“Morning.”

His gaze travels between you and Bob. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

You look at Bob who nods at you in encouragement. You’ll get through this. You have to.

[apoemaday]

To Autumn

by John Keats

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; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[triniitea]

My toon baby Poppy Kernel! 🍿

[a-ramblinrose]

JOMP Book Photo Challenge || September 22 || Hello, Autumn:    To Autumn by John Keats 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;      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[autumneverleigh]

To Autumn

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.

John Keats

[autumnmylife]

To Autumn-John Keats

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;

      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[fugengulsen]

To Autumn

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.

John Keats